Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

“I propose,” went on the Archbishop, “that I speak to the Princess Anne and remind her of her duty. I believe that a reconciliation between Your Majesty and Her Highness should not be delayed.”

William answered: “Pray do this.” And in spite of the shock he had just received his spirits lifted a little. Tenison was an honest man. He disapproved of William’s relations with Elizabeth Villiers and said so; but at the same time he was anxious that there should be an end to the quarrel with Anne which was necessary if William’s reign was to continue in peace.

A good friend, this Archbishop, though an uncomfortable one. But William was wise enough to know that the best friends a King could have were often those who spoke their minds and made as little concession to royalty as possible.

He shut himself into his cabinet and opened the letter. He read it and as he did so he could scarcely stop the tears falling from his eyes. He understood her now as he never had when she had lived. She had been so constantly aware of his infidelity; and yet she had rarely given a sign of it, outwardly accepting it, behaving as though it did not exist, when all the time it was souring her existence. Poor, foolish Mary! Courageous, clever Mary! He had thought her more simple than she was. He remembered how she had sat knotting her fringe, close to the candlelight, because her eyes troubled her so; he could see her looking up at him smiling tenderly, radiantly, giving him the homage and humility he had demanded. And all the time she was thinking of him with Elizabeth.

Again he read her letter. He must give up Elizabeth. His immortal soul was in danger. She implored him to do so. Marry again if he must, but marry someone worthy to be a consort of a great King.

She was gone; he had lost her, never to see her again, to see her start at his entrance and flutter her hands in that helpless way which had so often exasperated him; and yet he had been annoyed when she had seemed more composed. Never to be able to talk to her, to have her give him all her attention, to let him see in a hundred ways how she adored him.

He had lost the best wife he could have had; she was all that he had needed in a wife; and he had never appreciated that when she was here with him. He had never thought of what he would do without her; in fact he had never believed he would have to be without her. He had been the delicate one, he had been the invalid.

But now she had gone. Mary, whom he had never quite understood.

Oh, there was the subtlety of his emotion. She had wanted to save his soul and that was the reason why she had left this last letter. But why had she thought fit to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury on this very private matter? Would it not have been enough to write to him? Now he was wondering about her motives as he constantly had during her lifetime, and he realized that he could never be sure of Mary—no more in death than in life. Perhaps she had believed that if she had not sent him the letter through the Archbishop he would not have taken it seriously. Now the Archbishop would remonstrate with him, for that was what Mary had asked him to do.

It was surprising that now he must be unsure of her, even as he had in life.

He touched his cheek and it was wet. He, cold stern William, was weeping. He wanted her back with him; there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind. Suddenly a sense of desolation swept over him. He understood that he had loved Mary; and he had lost her: he would never be able to tell her that he had loved her—in his way. Why had he not, when she was alive? Perhaps he had not known it.

He shut himself in his closet and gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. He opened a drawer and took out a lock of her hair. She had given it to him before one of his departures in what he had considered to be an excess of unnecessary sentimentality, and he had thrust it into this drawer, exasperated by her action.

Now he took it out and looked at it. It was beautiful hair, and he wished that he had appreciated it during her lifetime.

How odd that he felt no resentment toward her for writing that letter to him and worse still writing to the Archbishop. He would never feel resentment toward her again, and wished with all his heart that she were with him now.

He made a bracelet of the hair and tied it about his arm with a piece of black ribbon.

No one would see it; only he would know it was there; but he would wear it, in memory of her, until he died.

There was someone at the door of his cabinet. He cried out angrily: “Did I not say I did not wish to be disturbed?”

“The King will see me.”

He recognized the voice of the Archbishop and for the second time was too taken aback in the presence of this man to assert himself. The Archbishop shut the door and faced him.

“I see,” he said, “that Your Majesty suffers remorse. I come now to ask you for the promise as Her Majesty wished me to.”

“Promise?” demanded William.

“The promise that you will not see Elizabeth Villiers again.”

William was silent. The Archbishop had found him in the midst of his remorse; there were even traces of tears on his cheeks. Perhaps Tenison knew that what he felt today he would not feel next week: and that this was the time to complete the commission left to him by the dead Queen.

“It was her dying wish,” went on the Archbishop. “All her thoughts were for you. She died in fear that as an adulterer you would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps she is watching us now, waiting, praying for you to give the answer she wants.”

William was choked by emotions. It seemed to him that he could never miss anyone as he missed Mary. He longed for her meekness, her tender docility—all that he had lost.

“She is watching us,” said Tenison. “Do you not sense her near?”

William murmured: “I promise. Please leave me now.”