The Three Crowns: The Story of William a - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,14
George Churchill had been found a place in the navy and John in the army.
She might rail against James; he would listen patiently, perhaps promise to mend his ways; but of course he had no intention of keeping that promise for more than a few hours.
If she had the time and inclination for such an adventure she would take a lover. She almost had a few years ago. Henry Sidney was one of the most handsome men in the Court; he had been Groom of the Bedchamber and when he had become her Master of Horse Anne had been thrown constantly into his company. How wounded she had been at that time, knowing that her husband was turning more and more to his mistresses and understanding that she would never be able to divert his attention from them! It had been more difficult in those days to accept humiliation.
And how furious James had been when he suspected Sidney of being her lover! How he had ranted and raged—which was so unlike him. His jealousy had been gratifying but he refused to agree that what was acceptable in a husband should be in a wife; and Sidney’s handsome face had not appeared at Court for a long time. The plague had followed quickly on that affair, but Anne was sure that Henry Sidney remained in the Duke’s mind, as memorable a disaster as the great sickness.
She was thinking of this as she sat alone in her bedchamber, asking herself whether the recent Denham tragedy would make James a little more careful in his choice of mistresses when she noticed a paper which had evidently been thrust under her door.
Going to it and, bending carefully as she must on account of her weight, she picked it up, and taking it to the window read it. As she did so the color came into her white flabby face. It was a verse … a lampoon directed against her, telling of her jealousy, of the Duke’s preference for another woman which had caused her to have a dose of poison put into that woman’s chocolate.
This was too much. To endure his infidelities was one thing. To be accused of poisoning his mistresses was another. If it had been Arabella Churchill there might have been some reason in it. But to dare to accuse her of murdering the insignificant Margaret Denham was beyond endurance.
Grasping the paper in her hand she went along to her husband’s apartment. Mary was with him, but she scarcely saw the child.
“Look at this,” she said, thrusting the paper into his hands.
James read it; and before he spoke he caressed his daughter’s head.
“Go now, my dear,” he said, giving her a little push toward an ante chamber.
When Mary had disappeared Anne said: “This is more than I will endure.”
James lifted his shoulders. “There are always these lampoons.”
“They would not be if your conduct did not give the writers what they are looking for.”
“They would always find something.”
“I suspect Rochester to be the author of this.”
“That man! I would my brother would dismiss him from the Court.”
“Dismiss his boon companion. He would rather see you gone, James … you with your scandals and your follies.”
“I doubt I’ll ever make a scandal as great as my brother’s.”
“He is the King. He can keep twenty mistresses at a time and the people will applaud him. You, my dear Duke, do not enjoy the people’s indulgence to that extent. And when your mistresses are murdered—well, that is a serious matter. Charles has not been involved in that sort of scandal.”
“You are shouting,” said James. “You will be heard.”
“Those who listen will only hear what they already know.”
“I forbid you to talk in this way.”
Anne laughed. “You forbid me. It is no use trying to cover up your indiscretions by playing the great duke and stern master. It will not do. I shall not endure these humiliations.”
“You have not always been so virtuous yourself, if I remember rightly. What of Henry Sidney?”
“Henry Sidney. He was merely my Master of Horse.”
“And of you it seems.”
“A fabrication which existed in your mind. It was so convenient to delude yourself that your wife was unfaithful—since you had deceived her with … how many? Or would it be impossible to count?”
“You are overwrought.”
“I have just been accused of murder. What are you going to do about that?”
“I tell you, there will always be lampoons. They are written daily about Charles and Barbara Castlemaine.”