Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

“Doubtless he will think I am a little too fine,” mused Gloucester thoughtfully. “But my loyalty may help to divert his impatience with my finery.”

The Princess Anne had rolled her eyes in ecstasy. Was there ever such a boy! What wit! What observation! What a King he would make when his turn came!

When he had left them they had had to listen to accounts—heard many times before—of his wit and wisdom. Sarah was impatient, but Barbara Fitzharding was almost as besotted as the Princess; and there they had sat, like two old goodies, talking about this wonderful boy.

It was later when Sarah and Barbara were together, that Sarah gave way to her impatience.

“I do not think the King cared for all that display,” she commented, a smile which was almost a sneer turning up a corner of her mouth.

“He is, I believe, truly fond of his nephew,” Barbara replied. “And he is not fond of many people.”

“There are his good friends, Bentinck and Keppel—Bentinck the faithful and Keppel the handsome—and of course his mistress.”

Sarah looked slyly at Barbara, for it was her sister, Elizabeth Villiers, who had been William’s mistress almost since the beginning of his marriage to the time of the Queen’s death. The Queen had left a letter that had been opened after her death reproaching William and asking him to discontinue the liaison, and which had so shaken the King that he had left Elizabeth alone for a long time. Sarah believed, though, that the relationship had been resumed—very secretively; and Barbara, a spy reporting everything to her sister who passed it on to William, would know if this were so.

“He is so very ill these days,” said Barbara. “I doubt whether he has the time or energy for diversions.”

“His gentlemen friends remain at his side. I hear they enjoy themselves on Holland gin in the Hampton Banqueting House. He still finds time—and energy—to indulge his Dutchmen.”

“But he is looking more frail every week.”

“That is why it was a mistake to dress Gloucester up in all that finery. It was almost proclaiming him Prince of Wales before his mother is Queen.”

“I wonder,” said Barbara with a hint of sarcasm, “that you did not warn his mother since she would most assuredly listen to you.”

“I did warn her.”

“And she disobeyed?” Veiled insolence! Sarah had never liked Barbara Fitzharding since the days when as young Barbara Villiers she had lived with the circle of girls, Sarah among them, who had been brought up by Barbara’s mother, with the young Princesses Anne and Mary in Richmond Palace.

“She is so besotted about that boy.”

“He is her son.”

“He is being pampered. I would not let one of mine be indulged as he is.”

Was this a reflection on Barbara’s governess-ship? Barbara disliked Sarah Churchill—who at Court did not?—and although she might rule the Princess Anne’s household, Barbara was not going to allow her to interfere in that of the Duke of Gloucester.

“He is by no means indulged. He merely happens to be an extremely intelligent boy. In fact, I have never known one more intelligent.”

“Have you not? I must invite you to St. Albans one day and you shall meet my children.”

Barbara laughed. “Everything you have must naturally be better than other people’s.”

“Must always be? What do you mean by that? My children are strong, healthy, intelligent, which is not to be wondered at. Compare their father with that … oaf … I can call him nothing else … who goes around babbling ‘Est-il possible?’ to everything that is said to him! Prince George of Denmark! I call him Old Est-il-possible! And when I do everyone knows to whom I refer.”

“One would think you were the royal Princess—Her Highness, your servant,” said Barbara. “You ought to take care, Sarah Churchill. You should think back to the days when you first joined us at Richmond. You were fortunate, were you not, to find a place there? It was the greatest good luck … for you. You must admit that you were not of the same social order as the rest of us. We were noble and you …”

“Your relative, Barbara Villiers—my lady Castlemaine as she became—put honors in your family’s way because she was an expert performer in the King’s bedchamber. We had no such ladies in our family.”

“Your husband I believe did very well out of his relationship with my lady Castlemaine. She paid him for his services to her … in the bedchamber. Was it five thousand pounds with which he bought an annuity? You must find that very useful now that my lord Marlborough is out of favor and has no office at the Court.”

If there was one person in the world whom Sarah truly loved it was her husband, John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough; and although he had had a reputation as a rake before their marriage, he had, she was certain, remained absolutely faithful to her since. This reference to past indiscretions aroused her fury.

She slapped Barbara Fitzharding’s face.

Barbara, taken aback, stared at her, lifted her hand to retaliate and then remembered that there must be no brawling between women in positions such as theirs.

But her anger matched Sarah’s.

“I’m not surprised at your mode of behavior,” she said. “It is hardly to be wondered at. And besides being arrogant and ill-mannered you are also cruel. I should be ashamed, not to have poor relations, but to turn my back on them while they starve.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“It is no nonsense. I heard only the other day the distressing story of the Hill family. I was interested … and so