Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [82]
“You can scarcely blame my father-in-law. He must have some respite from that tongue.”
“I thought it was impossible for a man of his nature to remain a virtuous husband. Why, before Sarah got her talons into him he was one of the biggest rakes in Town.”
Sunderland’s burst of laughter maddened Sarah, but she had to go on listening.
“He braved the King of England when he slept with Barbara Castlemaine, so why shouldn’t he brave Sarah for this woman. I hear she is very attractive … kind and gentle. A change. A man must have variety. But after Hurricane Sarah the most blatant fishwife would seem like a soft breeze.”
Sarah could bear no more; she leaned out of the window.
“What wicked scandal is this.”
They were silent for a few seconds.
“I am sorry Your Grace overheard us,” said Sunderland, then, sardonically, caring for nothing, “We were discussing the news from London.”
“The news from London! I’d like to hear more of such news. And where you heard it.”
She came down to the gardens to find Sunderland alone—his friend having fled. Not many would care to face Sarah in such a mood.
“Now, young man, what is all this.”
Sunderland tried to remind her by his haughty demeanour that as the son of a great family he was in no mood to be so addressed by her, for Duchess though she might be, her background was not to be compared with his.
“Don’t prevaricate,” cried Sarah, her rage blinding her to everything else. “I want the truth from you or you’ll be sorry.”
“The truth, Madam? Who knows the truth of these affairs but those who participate in them? You have come to the wrong man. I am sure the Duke can tell you far more of this matter than I. Why not ask him?”
Why not? Sarah was going to lose no time. She was going straight to John Churchill to tell him that the tricks he got up to before his marriage could not be played now. Or if they were, that was the end of his life with her.
She raged up and down the room. In vain did he try to comfort her. “Sarah, there is no other woman.”
“And what of this story of Sunderland’s?”
“It is a lie.”
“I am not certain of that.”
“Then you don’t know me. How could it possibly be?”
“It could possibly be in the past, John Churchill. A fine fool you must have looked leaping out of Castlemaine’s window—naked! A fine sight indeed. And the King laughing at you from the window, insulting you, calling out that you were only earning your living.”
He was stricken. The story was one he had hoped was forgotten. Now she was recalling it and giving it more lurid details than it had possessed in reality.
“And,” she shrieked, “getting paid for your attentions. Five thousand pounds for serving in the bed of the King’s mistress. You must have been most worthy, for you have to admit your price was high.”
He took her by the shoulders and shook her, but it was no use. She was deeply wounded; she was filled with rage; and Sarah loved her rage; she loved to flagellate it into wilder and wilder fury, and at this moment she loved that fury more than she loved John Churchill.
“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said.
“I want no lies.”
“There is no need to tell lies.”
“So now you are going to say that you were never Barbara Castlemaine’s lover.”
“I was going to say no such thing. What happened before we married is past and done with. It is what happens now that is important. I tell you I have always been faithful to you. These are lies you have heard. Sunderland told you, you say. I wish we had never allowed that marriage. I shall never forgive him for this.”
“He only repeated what he heard and it is right that I should know.”
“There is no truth in this. You must believe me. You must.”
But Sarah was not going to be placated. She had been jolted out of her complacent belief. She paced the apartment like a madwoman and when John tried to embrace her, she cried out: “Don’t dare touch me, John Churchill. I’ll never share