Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [73]
She was so young yet; and dared say nothing, for she knew well enough how fierce Mamma could be when she did not want something—and she would certainly not want this marriage.
“But it is going to be,” said Mary to herself; and in her face was all her mother’s determination.
Watching Sarah reading the letter Mary thought: I shall hate her for ever and ever if she stops our marriage.
“H’m!” said the Duchess. “Sometimes I think that woman grows madder every day.”
Mary knew to whom she referred when she spoke in that slighting way. Mamma loved to speak contemptuously of the Queen, who had done so much for her. Perhaps, thought Mary, she will send me back to St. Albans with Abigail Hill in charge. That would be wonderful. One could do exactly what one liked with Abigail Hill. One could bully and browbeat her into accepting just anything.
“Is it from the Queen?” asked Mary.
“It is. She is a jealous old fool. She cannot bear that I should be with anyone but herself. What next!”
“Mamma, do you propose to send Abigail Hill to St. Albans with me?”
“No I do not. She is too useful at Court. The Queen would not like that at all.”
“She would not wish to lose Abigail then?”
Sarah let out a spurt of laughter. “Abigail! She cares nothing for her. She’s a good chambermaid … nothing more. The Queen likes her there because she does what is expected of her without obtruding. But she is so jealous of my noticing anyone … just anyone … that she thinks of a plain little chambermaid as an enchantress. Think of that! Abigail Hill.”
“I was only thinking, Mamma, that you might have wanted her to be in charge of me. It would take me off your hands if Abigail and I went back to St. Albans.”
The Duchess’s glittering eyes were fixed on her daughter.
“Both you and Abigail stay precisely where you are,” she said coolly.
Mary quailed. How much does she know? she wondered.
How pleasant it was in the green closet! Abigail poured the tea and brought it to her mistress, so quietly, so efficiently, just the right amount of sugar. Why was it that it was never quite the same when others made it? George sat in his chair, so contented now—except of course when his asthma troubled him, and even then so patient … so resigned. Dear George! He seemed not to mind that he had never fulfilled his early promise of becoming a great soldier or sailor, just as she had accepted the fate of never having had the children they had longed for. Now she dreamed of being a great Queen. Often she talked to Hill about her hopes, for to talk to Hill was like talking to oneself. She never shouted or contradicted or burst into loud laughter that had a hint of derision in it.
“I look upon my people as my children, Hill, the children I never had. Then I see myself as the Mother of them all and I want to do what is best for them just as I should for my babies had they lived.”
“Your Majesty, I believe the people look upon you as the Mother of them all.”
“Do you think Hill that a Queen can—if she has good ministers—be an inspiration to her people that a King can never be?”
“I do, Your Majesty. Think of Queen Elizabeth. An inspiration … it is exactly that.”
Anne nodded contentedly. “When I think of that, Hill, I cease to mourn quite so sadly.”
“It is God’s consolation,” answered Abigail.
Dear Hill. So right-thinking! So deeply religious!
“And there is the Church, Hill. To uphold the Church and the state—that is my duty.”
“Oh, Your Majesty is good … good!”
Dear Hill! Not only were her deeds a perpetual comfort but her words also.
What happy days! And she was beginning to grasp affairs of state. Here in the green closet she received her favoured ministers and how much easier it was to grasp a situation over a dish of tea than at a Council meeting. She felt so at peace, with one of the dogs on her lap and