“Hurrah!” cried Nelly.
Louise had risen and walked haughtily away glancing at the King almost angrily as though commanding him to dismiss Nelly and follow her.
Charles affected not to see her, reflecting: Well, they have decided between them. It shall be Nelly tonight.
He liked having such decisions made for him.
The next day he remembered the scene when he found Sarah Churchill standing before him.
A connoisseur of women he automatically summed her up. Virago, he thought, and wondered whether if he had been a younger man she might have attracted him. Although he was ready to promise almost anything for the sake of peace, he could not help being attracted by viragos. Barbara had been one to outdo all others; Louise was not far off—only she fought with tears. This Sarah Churchill, like Barbara, would never do that. He saw the stamp of ambition on her face and wondered momentarily if she would attempt to become his mistress for the sake of advancing her husband’s fortunes. He was so lazy, if she did, he probably would give way.
Her first words showed him how wrong he had been.
“Your Majesty, I feel it my duty to bring a certain matter to your notice. I have given much thought to this and know it now to be my duty. It concerns the Princess Anne. Have I your permission to continue?”
“Pray do,” said Charles, thinking: No, I never would. She is too hard, this one. And I am old and more selective than in the days of my youth. Young she is and handsome, but she’d make too many bargains before getting into bed.
“The Earl of Mulgrave seeks to marry the Princess Anne, Your Majesty.”
He regarded her sleepily.
“I have proof of his intentions,” she went on. “This I have brought to lay before Your Majesty.”
He took the paper and read the words written there. She was right. A love letter written by his niece to Mulgrave. It would seem that this affair had gone farther than it should have been allowed to.
“I trust, Your Majesty, I have acted wisely.”
“I am certain that Mrs. Churchill will always act wisely,” said the King graciously.
“Then Your Majesty is not displeased with me?”
“You did not fear that I should be displeased with you,” he said with a smile she did not understand. “It is my niece’s displeasure you expect.”
“Your Majesty, I beg that this may be kept secret from the Princess Anne.”
“Who,” put in Charles, “has no notion that you have stolen her little
“Only because I considered it my duty to … the Princess.”
“Readily understood, Mrs. Churchill. Have no fear. And … I thank you.”
“I thank Your Gracious Majesty.”
She curtseyed and retired while he stood looking at the paper in his hand.
Poor little Anne! So she had found there was something as sweet in the world as chocolate. There had been times when he had thought she never would.
He folded the paper carefully and put it into his pocket; then he summoned one of his pages and told him that he wished the Duke of York to be sent to him without delay.
When James arrived Charles held out the note which Sarah had brought him.
James took it gingerly and when he read it he looked up, bewildered, into his brother’s face.
“You see,” said Charles, “that our little Anne is ripe for marriage.”
“But Mulgrave!” cried James.
“I echo your sentiments,” Charles told him. “I have fancied that of late my lord had become too hopeful.”
“You think Anne is in love with the fellow?”
“Anne loves him as she loves sweetmeats, brother, and the love for a sweetmeat is a passing fancy. There it is … ah, delectable, adorable. What flavor! The taste lingers for a while—a very little while. And then it is gone. When we have removed Mulgrave from her greedy little eyes she will be looking round for the next fancy. We must find something very sweet and succulent for her, brother.”
“My poor child. I cannot forget Mary.”
“Anne is not Mary; and we will try to find her a more attractive bridegroom than the Orange.”
“I was never in favor of
“Your misfortune James is that you have rarely been in favor of what was to your advantage.”
Charles gave his brother a melancholy smile. What will become of him when I am gone? he asked himself. There would be trouble. With Monmouth casting sheep’s eyes at the crown and William who couldn’t cast sheep’s eyes if it were a matter of saving his life to do so—still, if the poor fellow could not lech for a woman he could for a throne. William could be as chock-full of passion as Monmouth when it came to the crown of England; and there was James—ineffectual, with a genius for doing the wrong thing at the worst possible moment. Oh, God, thought Charles, never was a man more thankful than I that he’ll be out of the way when his inheritance is for sale.
“James,” he said, “why cannot you show some sense? Why not let it be known that you’ve given up this
