The Three Crowns: The Story of William a - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,56

faithful character who was constantly misunderstood.

When Mary could not see Frances her only consolation was in writing letters to her. To her beloved Aurelia she told of her undying devotion, imploring her always to love her exclusively and to remember that she was the loving husband to her Mary-Clorine.

As Lady Frances Villiers did not approve of this correspondence and Mary was in constant dread that something would be done to stop it, the letters had to be smuggled out of Richmond Palace to St. James’s. The dwarfs, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, who loved their mistress and wished to please her, conveniently obliged and did the carrying. So a pleasant atmosphere of intrigue had been created and when Mary looked back to those dull days before she had known Frances Apsley, she wondered how she had endured them.

Anne refused to be left out. She even bestirred herself to write to Frances, although writing was an occupation which held little charm for her.

One day Mary found her bent over a letter and looking over her shoulder saw that she was writing to her beloved Semandra.

Anne put her hands over the letter, pretending to hide it.

“Who is Semandra?” asked Mary.

“Well, if she is Aurelia to you she cannot be to me.”

“Semandra! That is one of the characters in Mithridate.”

Anne nodded. “Mrs. Betterton wants me to act in it. And Ziphares is in it too. So while Frances is Semandra I shall be Ziphares.”

“Anne, why do you always have to copy me? Can’t you think of anything for yourself?”

Anne looked astonished. “But why should I, when I have my dear clever Mary to think of everything?”

Mary wanted to feel angry and exasperated; but how could she? She loved Anne and could not imagine ever being without her.

She thought then that she would like to spend the rest of her life in a little house—far from the Court. She and Frances together. They would have cows and she would do the milking; and she would cook like a country woman. Anne should visit them … often, very often.

She was smiling at her sister. “Really, Anne, you ought to try and do something of your own.”

Mary Beatrice was longing for a son. The people expected it of her; if she had a boy he would be the heir to the throne; it was no wonder that everyone watched her with apprehension during those waiting months.

When she was indisposed her health was the main topic of conversation. Every night she prayed for a son.

Poor barren Queen Catherine spent much time with her and they became good friends, for it seemed that since Catherine could not provide the heir to the throne she was content for her sister-in-law to do so.

It was a great responsibility.

She guarded her health with the greatest care all during the cold dark autumn days, and early in January she went to St. James’s Palace to await the birth.

On the ninth of that month she knew her time was near; and with relief and apprehension waited for the beginning of her ordeal.

Outside the snow had begun to fall and the bitter wind blew along the river. Her women were bustling round her.

This was the most important birth in the kingdom.

She awoke on a dark Sunday knowing that her time had come; she called to her women.

It seemed to Mary Beatrice that all the world was waiting breathlessly for the child she would have.

She was aware of voices as she emerged from unconsciousness. The room was lighted by many candles and her pains were over.

Someone was bending over her.

“James,” she said.

“My dear.”

“The child?”

“The child is well and healthy. And you must rest now.”

“But I want to see …”

He said: “Bring the child.…”

The child? Why did he continue to say the child? She knew of course. Had it been a boy he would not have said the child.

They brought the little bundle; they laid it in her arms.

“Our little daughter,” said James tenderly.

“A daughter!”

But when she held the child in her arms she ceased to care that it was not a boy.

It was her child. She was a mother. She laughed scornfully at that foolish girl who had believed that the ultimate contentment could only be found within the walls of a convent.

She lay in her bed, drowsily content. My daughter, she thought. There would be others. Next time a son. But she was entirely content that this one should be a daughter.

She thought of the future of the child. Should she be brought up with