Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [74]
Samuel Masham was a frequent visitor because he always accompanied the Prince, and he was a young man on whom George seemed to depend as she did on Abigail. Not quite as much, of course; that would be impossible.
“There is a cold wind today, Your Majesty.” Abigail laid the shawl about her shoulders.
“I notice it now you mention it.”
She always anticipated a want. What a creature!
“The Duchess is still at St. Albans, I suppose.”
“I believe that to be so, Your Majesty.”
Abigail lowered her eyes to hide the faint mischief in them. The Duchess’s children did lead her a dance. Now it was Mary wanting to marry someone whom the Duchess considered unsuitable. Abigail hoped that little affair would keep Mamma occupied at St. Albans for some time. It was so peaceful at Court without her.
“How peaceful it is!” said the Queen. “Do you know Hill, I think one of the states most desirable as one gets older is peace. I am sure His Highness would agree with me.”
“I am sure he would, Your Majesty.”
How long, wondered Abigail, before she began to understand who was the disturber of the peace, how long would she allow the Duchess to dominate her and set the pattern of her life? Sometimes it seemed as though the answer was: For ever. There were others when Abigail was not so sure.
“Hill, who is invited to the closet this afternoon?”
“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John.”
“Oh yes, yes. Marlborough’s protégés. He seems to think highly of them and he is a very clever man. The Duchess is not so sure of them. Well, perhaps we shall discover, eh, Hill?”
Perhaps we shall discover! There were moments when Anne lifted her from her position as a chambermaid and made a confidante of her, and to be a confidante of a Queen was to take part in politics.
“It might be that Mr. Harley would like a dish of tea, Hill.”
Abigail stood before him and a shiver of excitement tinged with apprehension ran through her. His eyes, betraying nothing of his feelings, rested on her not lightly but as though they would probe the depth of her mind. As he accepted the tea she caught the smell of wine on his breath; he had been drinking before he came. Why not? she asked herself. So had the Prince, over his dinner; that was why he could not keep awake.
“Thank you, Mistress Hill,” he said. His tone was courteous but his voice harsh.
“And Mr. St. John?”
What a handsome young man! Considerably younger than Mr. Harley. Twenty years? Not quite so much as that. Fifteen perhaps. And clearly his disciple. Mr. St. John was too bold. Abigail had heard from Samuel Masham that he had the reputation of being a rake. Now his eyes were on Abigail appraisingly, but differently from the manner in which Mr. Harley watched her. St. John was no doubt noticing her sandy hair, the freckles of which she could never rid herself, the pinkness at the tip of the nose which was too long, the colourlessness of eyes that were too small. He would be dismissing her as unbedworthy. But still he was interested. Yet not so interested as Mr. Harley.
The realization came to Abigail that she was no longer merely the chambermaid to pour the tea, to fetch and carry the Queen’s fans, cards or shawls, and that these men, who were clearly going to be important in the country’s affairs had discovered this startling fact even before she had.
Mr. Harley was talking to the Queen of Daniel Defoe. Abigail seated herself on a stool close to the Queen’s chair, where Anne liked her to be, and listened. Mr. Harley was now trying to plead for Defoe. What an extraordinary voice he had; it was inharmonious, and he all but stuttered; yet he made his points with a brilliance and tact which was admirable.
“Your Majesty’s reign will be one remembered through the ages,” he was telling Anne. How had he known that that was one of the dearest wishes of her heart? “Conquest, yes, Madam. That makes for greatness, but there is something more valuable, more endurable: Literature.”
“I believe you have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Harley.”
“To collect books