Part 17 (2/2)
”That's true enough. I only have to turn my back and we have bodice-makers given grand t.i.tles. We'll be hearing that grooms are being turned into n.o.ble Dukes next. And then, if you please, we have to show our piety by touching for the King's Evil. Medieval, I call it. You should have told me what was going on.”
Abigail looked contrite. ”Your Grace, I knew that you were in mourning....”
”It's of no account. Well, now I am here and I shall see that all goes smoothly and as it should. I believe the Queen has been pleased with you. You have looked to her comfort without intruding. That's being a good servant. I am going to reward you.”
”Your Grace is so good.”
”My youngest daughter is with me. I did not care to leave her at St. Albans now that her sister is married and her brother ... gone. So I have brought her with me. I want you to keep an eye on her. It means that you will accompany us perhaps to the opera or to the play. You will watch my daughter and make sure no harm befalls her.”
”And the Queen ...” Abigail was terrified for the moment. Did this mean that she was going to be taken from Anne's service? She could not have endured that. She pictured herself going to the Queen, throwing herself on her knees and demanding to be kept.
But Sarah went on impatiently: ”Certainly not. The Queen would not wish to lose you. You have proved yourself a good chambermaid. This will be in the nature of a little treat for your good services.”
A treat! A duenna for the hot-tempered Mary who was too like her mother for comfort. She hoped that Anne would soon ask for her to resume her duties.
Anne said fretfully: ”And where is Hill?”
”Your Majesty,” said Mrs. Danvers, ”the d.u.c.h.ess said she was taking her to the opera.”
”The opera! Hill! But how very strange.”
”Yes, Your Majesty. It is strange that the d.u.c.h.ess should take the chambermaid to the opera.”
”Danvers, I should like you to bathe my feet. They are very swollen today. Oh dear, how I should love to go to the opera, but frankly, Danvers, I do not care to be carried there ... and that is how it would have to be. I do believe my gout has been worse these last days. Hill had such soothing hands.”
Mrs. Danvers brought the bowl and bathed the royal feet.
There was not the magic in her hands that was in Hill's. She closed her eyes. How tiring it had been this afternoon. Dinner at three of the clock had made George as sleepy as usual; and he had slept away that pleasant hour or two which she usually so enjoyed in her beloved green closet. It was Hill's duty to sit at the tea table and pour the tea-she had rather pretty white hands. Her only beauty, poor Hill! Anne looked at her own. We have that in common, she thought. Poor Hill! So thin and plain. But such pretty hands and such a touch on the harpsichord, and her imitations were really amusing. They made George laugh. How she enjoyed seeing him amused-although not too much, for it could bring on the asthma. Hill had never done that. She was so discreet. If she saw it coming on-and she would be watchful-she would stop.
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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 Lord Rialton and would be the Earl of G.o.dolphin when his father died? Anne was Lady Sunderland and Elizabeth, Lady Bridgewater. Grand marriages for all three. They had married where their mother wished them to; so why shouldn't Mary the youngest choose for herself?
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 d.u.c.h.ess. ”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 d.u.c.h.ess'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.
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