The Three Crowns: The Story of William a - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,27

with the future life. She was reading a letter from her father—a sad man in exile—for she had thought it necessary to tell him that she had become a Catholic.

He was disturbed. She knew that he believed the source of his troubles had been her union with the Duke of York, but she was convinced that this was not so. His overbearing manner, his criticism of the King’s way of life had become unsupportable to Charles; moreover it was natural that the King should want younger ministers, men such as Buckingham, more like himself.

She was a foolish woman, wrote Clarendon. She should take great care. In every way was the Church of England superior to that of Rome. He knew her obstinacy, however, and he could understand from the mood of her confession that she was convinced and would stand firm. Therefore he was giving her a word of advice. If she wanted to keep her children at her side, then she must keep also her secret. Once she confessed that she was a Catholic, the King would be forced by the will of the people to take them from her.

These words made her ponder, for she knew there was much truth in them.

In his apartments James was also receiving disturbing news. This had been carried to him by a Jesuit, Symond, who had brought it from Pope Clement IX.

James had wanted to know whether the Pope would give him a dispensation if he, a Catholic, kept his religion secret and worshipped openly in the Church of England.

The answer was No. As a true Catholic he must proclaim himself as such, no matter what worldly advantages were lost to him.

Neither the Duke nor the Duchess were enjoying reading their letters.

James had been ill and was now convalescing at Richmond and it gave him great pleasure when Mary sat in his bedchamber and read or talked to him. She wished that she could have been happier in his company; she could not understand why she did not feel—as she could only express it—comfortable. She had listened to conversations in the nursery and whenever she was with her father she remembered these; she had a vague and unpleasant idea of his activities, and inwardly she shrank from him because she could never rid herself of images which came into her mind.

Then there was her mother who seemed daily to grow more ugly. Mary promised herself that she would never eat to excess, for she believed that her mother’s bloated and unhealthy appearance was entirely due to the enormous amount of food she consumed. Anne, who had inherited her mother’s appetite, should be warned.

It was the earnest wish of the Duke and Duchess to live these weeks as a happy family, to prove to themselves that their efforts to marry had been well worthwhile. The Duke remained at Richmond, faithful to his wife; the Duchess had grown gentle and uncritical, in fact she was often too exhausted to be anything else.

But with the children—Mary, Anne, and little Edgar—she attempted at times to be gay; and sometimes they would play games together; but there was an unnatural gaiety about those games which Mary detected; and those weeks which should have been so happy were overshadowed for her by a lack of ease. A sense of doom hung over her family and because she did not understand why it was there, who had caused it to be there, and what it was, she was all the more fearful.

There was a hush throughout the Palace. Mary, Anne, and little Edgar were in the nursery with Lady Frances and the Villiers girls. Even Elizabeth was subdued.

The Duchess of York had given birth to a daughter who had been named Catherine after the Queen. The infant was weak, though still living, but the Duchess was sinking and there was little hope of recovery.

The gentle Portuguese Queen Catherine had come to her bedside and was with her now. The Duke was there too and there had been much mysterious comings and goings.

Mary with Anne and Edgar waited in silence to hear what was happening; all day long they waited and no one came to tell them.

The Duke knelt by her bedside, remembering moments from the past which now seemed to him to have contained complete happiness. Never again would she upbraid him for his infidelity; never would they talk together of the mysteries of faiths. His eyes were wet with tears. He wanted her to live, for he could