Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [72]
Such pleasant afternoons! And that nice page, Samuel Masham, usually accompanied the Prince. He looked a little glum this afternoon. In fact they were all glum—except the Prince, who was quickly asleep.
“We missed Abigail Hill,” said Anne to herself, with a little jolt of surprise. “All of us. Even George. I am sure he didn’t sleep quite so comfortably.”
And now Sarah had swooped on Abigail Hill and carried her off to the opera. Suppose Sarah should discover the charm of Abigail Hill. Suppose she carried her off to St. Albans. Then she would never want to lose her. Anne’s face grew long. She pictured them together—handsome flamboyant Sarah and quite indispensable Abigail Hill.
Her feet felt limp and only half dry.
“Danvers …” she began. But what was the use? It was only Abigail who could bring comfort to her poor aching feet.
Abigail … and Sarah! Together. And she confined to her couch or her chair with her dropsy and her gout. How she would enjoy being at the opera, listening to Sarah’s wit and with Hill close by to see to her wants.
Danvers was awaiting her command.
“Bring me writing materials. I want to write to the Duchess of Marlborough.”
While Danvers was obeying her she thought of Sarah who had been absent from her for several days and had not written. Sarah was always remiss in her correspondence; Anne had constantly to be reminding her to write. And now of course she would have less time than usual, since she had discovered the virtues of Abigail Hill.
“Dear Mrs. Freeman hates writing so much I fear, though she should stay away two or three days, she would hardly let me hear from her, and therefore for my own sake I must write her a line or two. I fancy now you are in Town you will be tempted to see the Opera, which I should not wonder at, for I should be so too if I were able to stir, but when that will be God knows, for I am still so lame I cannot go without limping. I hope Mrs. Freeman has no thoughts of going to the Opera with Mrs. Hill and will have a care of engaging herself too much in her company, for if you give way to that it is a thing which will insensibly grow upon you. Therefore give me leave once more to beg for your sake, as well as poor Mrs. Morley’s, that you would have as little to do with that enchantress as ’tis possible, and pray pardon me for saying it.
Your poor unfortunate Morley.”
She sent for Danvers to seal the letter and see that it was delivered. And afterwards when she sat dozing in her chair she thought: That was a strange letter I wrote to Mrs. Freeman. I wonder why I wrote it. Yet there is truth in it, little Abigail Hill is an enchantress of sorts. One does not notice her when she is there, but when she is away, how one misses her!
“Danvers.”
“Your Majesty.”
“When Hill returns please tell her that she is taking too much leave of absence.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And send her to me … as soon as she comes.”
The Duchess of Marlborough was with her daughter Mary when the Queen’s letter was delivered to her. Mary sat sullenly watching her mother while she opened the letter.
The young girl’s blue eyes were fretful, her mouth—so like Sarah’s—was petulant. She was longing to return to St. Albans. He would be waiting for her. She would slip out in the evening and they would plan the future. Perhaps they would have to elope for it was certain that Mamma would never allow one of her daughters to marry a simple country gentleman. And that was all he was, even though he was the most handsome, most perfect man in the world. Wasn’t it enough that Henrietta’s husband was