Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughter Page 0,116

is to be punished for making stiff stays that hurt.”

“Mr. Hughes,” said Lewis Jenkins, “get you up then, man. Now stand away, you boys.”

“They take orders from none but me.”

“The wooden horse, Mr. Hughes, man, is the punishment they use for soldiers who disobey. Take no notice. Mr. Hughes is not one of Your Highness’s men.”

“He makes stays that hurt. They’re hurting me now.”

“Why don’t you ask him to remake them for Your Highness. That would be more sensible than this game you’re playing.”

Mr. Hughes was on his feet, but hands still pulled at his clothes. He said: “I’m sorry the stays are too tight, Your Highness. You must allow me to alter them.”

“You can alter them?” asked the Duke.

“Certainly, Your Highness. I can make them so that you won’t feel you’re wearing stays at all, and would have done so, had you asked me.”

“Men … dismiss!” cried Gloucester. “Mr. Hughes, to my apartments quick … march.”

So Gloucester went off with the tailor and in a short time the stays had been altered to fit comfortably.

Lewis Jenkins laughed at the affair with his fellow attendants. “He’ll get what he wants, that little one,” he commented, and it struck him that they were fortunate to be in the service of the Duke of Gloucester. It was time he was acknowledged the Prince of Wales, for the more honors that befell him, the more they would all benefit.

THE END OF A LIFE

rs. Lundy, daughter of Robert Lundy, who had been Governor of Londonderry, where he had served with little distinction, and had betrayed William and deserted the town during the siege—smiled at Elizabeth Villiers and wondered why the woman was being so gracious to her.

“You have great influence with my lord Shrewsbury,” said Elizabeth, “and I can well understand that.”

Mrs. Lundy, a vain and pretty woman, laughed. “He’s an obstinate devil,” she said, “once he has made up his mind.”

“What man is not?” asked Elizabeth. “But sometimes—nay, often—it is possible to use a little gentle persuasion.”

“You think Shrewsbury would listen to me?”

“If he would not listen to you he would listen to no one.”

That pleased the woman; she tossed her head. No doubt she was proud of her conquest, for Shrewsbury was reckoned to be a fascinating man. He had a damaged eye which some people found repulsive; yet that seemed but to add to his attractions where others were concerned. Elizabeth herself knew the value of some slight imperfection and how it could be turned to an asset.

She must get Shrewsbury to take office. William would be so delighted if she did; and she was eager to bind him closer and closer to herself.

“A Dukedom. That is worth having,” went on Elizabeth. Surely, she implied, you would rather be the mistress of a Duke than an Earl? As the mistress of a King, Elizabeth could show that the rank of one’s lover was of the utmost importance.

“He doesn’t seem to care for titles.”

“He is well equipped in that direction,” added Elizabeth. “But I have yet to know the man who was not ready to take a little more. I’ll warrant you will make him do as you wish.”

Mrs. Lundy was not at all sure that it was her wish; but Elizabeth was subtly convincing her that it was.

Well, Mrs. Lundy was thinking, Secretary of State, a Duke … that was rather pleasant. And the King—and the Queen—would know that it was Mrs. Lundy who had persuaded that obstinate man to change his mind. They ought then to be very respectful toward Mrs. Lundy.

“I will talk to him,” she said.

“I know you will succeed,” Elizabeth assured her.

Gloucester was suffering from the ague and his mother was frantic with anxiety until she remembered that a Mr. Sentiman used to make up a prescription of brandy and saffron which he claimed would cure any sort of ague. Anne’s uncle, Charles II, had dabbled in the making of medicines and she had heard him recommend this prescription. So Anne immediately sent for Mr. Sentiman.

The mixture was brought to Gloucester who, protesting, took it. It cured his ague but made him so ill that his parents feared he was on the point of death.

Anne sat on one side of his bed, George on the other.

“He must not die,” whispered Anne brokenheartedly, and George came to stand at her side and place one of his fat hands on her shoulder. Dear comforting George, who loved the boy even as she did. Gloucester looked weakly from one to