Her women were helping her to bed and she was silent, which was unusual for her. Usually she liked to chat for, to her, talking was one of the pleasures of life and since she was never able to indulge in it to any great extent with William she did so whenever possible with everyone else.
“Your Majesty’s face is slightly less swollen,” said the Countess of Derby.
“Do you think so? I fancy it is less painful.”
Then silence. They were thinking of the change in her, for they had been hoping that once William was away there would be a little gaiety at Court. Dances perhaps, visits to the play; perhaps little jaunts to some of the houses in the bazaars.
But this was quite different. William’s absence had made of Mary a Queen with solemn duties.
Even at such an hour there was no respite. A messenger was at the door now with an urgent letter for the Queen.
Mary seized it and began to tremble as she read that the French were occupying the coast of the Isle of Wight.
What had Torrington done? Nothing! He ignored the Council in London, replying that his council upon the spot did not advise action as yet.
Devonshire was demanding action. “Does Torrington realize that the fate of three kingdoms is in his hands? Torrington must be replaced.”
“Make him a prisoner,” cried Russell.
“No, no,” interjected Marlborough. “That would please the enemy too much and put heart into them.”
Mordaunt said: “Let me go to him. I will engage the Frenchmen and drive them off … or die in the attempt.”
That someone should go was finally agreed by the Council and Mordaunt and Russell left.
In the privacy of her own apartment Mary awaited news with trepidation, feeling that disaster was very close indeed. She was unsure, and could only pray that the actions she took were the right ones.
She did not trust Mordaunt and wondered what he would do when he reached Torrington. Russell was the most outspoken of the ministers; he was coarse and crude but she believed trustworthy; and trustworthiness was a very desirable quality at such a time.
She could only find comfort in writing to William to tell him that she faced dire trouble at home as doubtless he did in Ireland. But she was far more anxious, she would have him know, for his dear person than for her own poor carcass.
“I can say nothing, but pray to God for you, and my impatience for a letter from you is as great as my love, which will not end but with my life.”
He attacked; or at least commanded the Dutch to do so, and this they did valiantly, but were so outnumbered that they could not hope for success. Many ships were disabled and Torrington’s contribution was to leave the Dutch to the enemy while he towed the damaged ships to the Thames mouth in order to blockade it.
There was utter defeat. The navy—Britain’s pride—had let her down shamefully; and England lay at the mercy of the invader. The French were at her coast. Torrington was locked up with the fleet in the estuary of the Thames; and while the King was in Ireland the Jacobites, who may well have been waiting for this opportunity, could now rise—and who knew who would support them?—and bring back James.
Marlborough, thank God, was at hand. He could, better than any man, protect his country should an invasion be attempted—if he would. But what of Marlborough, who could, Mary was sure, jump this way and that with agility? It would depend of course on which attitude would best serve Marlborough.
She felt that she had reached the very depth of despair, but two events, following closely on one another, brought fresh hope; and she believed them to be an answer to her prayer.
She was in her apartments writing a letter to William—for her only solace was in writing to him—when the Countess of Derby came to tell her that the Earl of Shrewsbury was asking to see her.
As Charles Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury came into the room, Mary’s spirits lifted. He would have been extremely handsome—perhaps the handsomest man at Court, now Monmouth was gone—but for a blemish in one eye. Even so, he had been called “The King of Hearts”; it was said that women loved him on sight, but he had never taken advantage of that, being gentle and retiring. He would be faithful, Mary was sure, to a woman … or a cause.
His character had begun to show in his face for he was almost thirty now; gentleness blended well with the features which could almost be called beautiful; delicacy was there; his enemies might call it nervousness.
He did not enjoy good health, and this was the reason he had not been a member of the Council. Strange that an old man like Danby clung to office; and a young one like Shrewsbury pleaded ill health in order to stay out of it.
They had been children together for he was only a few years older than Mary, but there was a stronger bond than age and similar environment between them. When Mary had been a child she had constantly heard scandals about her father’s affairs with women and there was one—the case of Margaret Denham whose husband had murdered her because of her association with James—which had shocked her deeply. Shrewsbury had suffered a similar shock when his mother’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham had killed his father in a duel because of his mother; and then created a scandal by living openly with her.
Both Shrewsbury and Mary had been deeply affected by the adulterous intrigues of their parents. Mary had sought companions of her own sex until marriage with William had made her build up an ideal so that she convinced
