Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [75]
The Queen folded her hands. What pleasant conversation! What an accomplished man! Yes, she had heard of the people he mentioned and it was admirable, quite admirable, that they found so much in the times to inspire them.
“Sometimes, it does not inspire them to admiration, Madam,” suggested St. John.
“It is of slight importance,” retorted Mr. Harley. “It matters only that they are inspired.”
Mr. Harley led the conversation this way and that. He mentioned Jonathan Swift, Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Richard Steele, William Congreve, John Dryden and at last he came to the point of the discussion: Daniel Defoe.
“I believe he is under sentence for some misdemeanour,” said Anne, frowning.
“For writing a pamphlet, Madam.”
Anne shivered. “I would not compare such a man with Mr. Dryden whose work I admire. Such amusing plays! I think we should have one performed for my birthday, Hill. Remind me.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Had he been a less brilliant writer, Madam, he would now be free.”
Anne nodded. “Such amusing plays,” she answered.
Mr. Harley had a way of bringing the conversation back to what he wanted to say, and he had come to talk of Daniel Defoe for whom he obviously had a great admiration. Abigail realized at once that his idea was to have the man released from Newgate. But he did not know Anne if he thought that because she found his company stimulating she would grant any request. These people underestimated their Queen; she could be as determined as any of them to have what she wanted. She never raged and stormed as some people were apt to do. But she made her point and clung to it as stubbornly as any mule.
She had not invited Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John to the friendly intimacies of the green closet to discuss the affairs of a scribbler who had foolishly been caught up in politics and in consequence found himself in Newgate Jail.
Abigail inwardly laughed. It was so amusing to listen to Mr. Harley on the theme of Defoe while the Queen repeated at intervals. “Such a clever man, Mr. Dryden. Hill do remind me. We will have the play at St. James’s for my birthday.”
And when they left they must have been deeply disappointed, for they had gained nothing, in Abigail’s opinion, but perhaps a little understanding that the Queen was not what they had believed her to be.
She would have been surprised if she could have heard their conversation as they sauntered across the path.
“What did you think of her, St. John?”
“Scarce a beauty and devilish sly.”
“It may well be that her mental accomplishments make up for her lack of physical attraction.”
“She’s quiet as a mouse. They call her the shuffling little wretch at court, so I heard. Danvers and the rest are pleased to put on her all the most unpleasant tasks.”
“Danvers and the rest could well be fools.”
“Come, Master, don’t tell me you’re taken with the woman.”
“Mightily taken.”
“And you not a man for the wenches.”
“Your mind runs along wearisomely well-worn paths, Harry. Did you know there are other games more amusing, more exciting than those of the bedchamber?”
“An impossibility,” answered St. John.
“Rake! Libertine! You’re missing much in life.”
“You are proposing to play games with Mistress Hill?”
“Perhaps. She’s a deep one that. Worth watching. Who is she, do you think?”
“Brought to court by Viceroy Sarah, being some distant relation in service, which could not be tolerated, of course. Connection of Her High and Mightiness a serving wench! Never! Better to have her at Court—in a post of spy, you understand.”
“So she is a Marlborough spy! I doubt it, Harry. I doubt it very much.”
Robert Harley was smiling complacently. He was well pleased with his visit to the green closet.
Abigail would have been surprised, for he had failed completely to do anything for Daniel Defoe. She did not guess then that he had achieved his main object. He had seen Abigail Hill and had decided that he had not been mistaken in her.
It was