The Three Crowns: The Story of William a - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,89

banquets and balls which celebrated the Protestant marriage, there were revelries in the streets. This was a defeat for popery, said the people. God save the King and the Princess Mary!

But while the bridegroom glowered and made it clear that he was heartily sick of England, his perfidious uncle, his sullen father-in-law, and his constantly weeping bride, and while the bride could not restrain her distaste for her marriage and her repulsion for her bridegroom, the revelries went on.

The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.

And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.

Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.

“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.

She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem I have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”

Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”

“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”

He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.

“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.

There followed days of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.

Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.

“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”

Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.

“But I must be assured that she is well looked after.”

“That is being taken care of. We are not to go near the sickroom. Those are firm orders.”

Mary stared at her reflection. The curls bunched on either side of her head gave a look of coquetry which was incongruous with that sad little face.

Lady Frances ill of the smallpox! Her secure and happy world was disintegrating. What next? she asked herself.

There was the unexpected joy of a visit from Frances Apsley. They embraced fervently.

“Oh, Frances, what shall I do? How can I endure this?”

“My dearest Mary-Clorine, you must endure it. It is cruel, but it had to be. You must write to me every day. We must comfort each other with our letters.”

“And not to see each other … ever!”

“We may be able to arrange meetings.”

“Oh, Frances, dearest husband, you say that to comfort me. Have you seen … him?”

“Yes, my dearest.”

“Then you know.”

“He looks stern. He looks as if he could be cruel. But you must remember you are a Princess, and he gains much by this marriage, a fact which you must not let him forget.”

“He terrifies me, Frances.”

“He is only a man, beloved—and not very old.”

“He is years older than I.”

“You think that because you are so young. You must not show your fear.”

“How can I hide it, dearest husband? How can I? Oh, Aurelia, beloved, it is you with whom I should be leaving the Court. Do you remember my dream of a