“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John.”
“Oh yes, yes. Marlborough’s protégés. He seems to think highly of them and he is a very clever man. The Duchess is not so sure of them. Well, perhaps we shall discover, eh, Hill?”
Perhaps we shall discover! There were moments when Anne lifted her from her position as a chambermaid and made a confidante of her, and to be a confidante of a Queen was to take part in politics.
“It might be that Mr. Harley would like a dish of tea, Hill.”
Abigail stood before him and a shiver of excitement tinged with apprehension ran through her. His eyes, betraying nothing of his feelings, rested on her not lightly but as though they would probe the depth of her mind. As he accepted the tea she caught the smell of wine on his breath; he had been drinking before he came. Why not? she asked herself. So had the Prince, over his dinner; that was why he could not keep awake.
“Thank you, Mistress Hill,” he said. His tone was courteous but his voice harsh.
“And Mr. St. John?”
What a handsome young man! Considerably younger than Mr. Harley. Twenty years? Not quite so much as that. Fifteen perhaps. And clearly his disciple. Mr. St. John was too bold. Abigail had heard from Samuel Masham that he had the reputation of being a rake. Now his eyes were on Abigail appraisingly, but differently from the manner in which Mr. Harley watched her. St. John was no doubt noticing her sandy hair, the freckles of which she could never rid herself, the pinkness at the tip of the nose which was too long, the colourlessness of eyes that were too small. He would be dismissing her as unbedworthy. But still he was interested. Yet not so interested as Mr. Harley.
The realization came to Abigail that she was no longer merely the chambermaid to pour the tea, to fetch and carry the Queen’s fans, cards or shawls, and that these men, who were clearly going to be important in the country’s affairs had discovered this startling fact even before she had.
Mr. Harley was talking to the Queen of Daniel Defoe. Abigail seated herself on a stool close to the Queen’s chair, where Anne liked her to be, and listened. Mr. Harley was now trying to plead for Defoe. What an extraordinary voice he had; it was inharmonious, and he all but stuttered; yet he made his points with a brilliance and tact which was admirable.
“Your Majesty’s reign will be one remembered through the ages,” he was telling Anne. How had he known that that was one of the dearest wishes of her heart? “Conquest, yes, Madam. That makes for greatness, but there is something more valuable, more endurable: Literature.”
“I believe you have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Harley.”
“To collect books is a hobby of mine, Madam. And I believe that at this time our country has a greater contribution to make to literature than ever before.”
The Queen folded her hands. What pleasant conversation! What an accomplished man! Yes, she had heard of the people he mentioned and it was admirable, quite admirable, that they found so much in the times to inspire them.
“Sometimes, it does not inspire them to admiration, Madam,” suggested St. John.
“It is of slight importance,” retorted Mr. Harley. “It matters only that they are inspired.”
Mr. Harley led the conversation this way and that. He mentioned Jonathan Swift, Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Richard Steele, William Congreve, John Dryden and at last he came to the point of the discussion: Daniel Defoe.
“I believe he is under sentence for some misdemeanour,” said Anne, frowning.
“For writing a pamphlet, Madam.”
Anne shivered. “I would not compare such a man with Mr. Dryden whose work I admire. Such amusing plays! I think we should have one performed for my birthday, Hill. Remind me.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Had he been a less brilliant writer, Madam, he would now be free.”
Anne nodded. “Such amusing plays,” she answered.
Mr. Harley had a way of bringing the conversation back to what he wanted to say, and he had come to talk of Daniel Defoe for whom he obviously had a great admiration. Abigail realized at once that his idea was to have the man released from Newgate. But he did not know Anne if he thought that because she found his company stimulating she would grant any request. These people underestimated their Queen; she could be as determined as any of them to have what she wanted. She never raged and stormed as some people were apt to do. But she made her point and clung to it as stubbornly as any mule.
She had not invited Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John to the friendly intimacies of the green closet to discuss the affairs of a scribbler who had foolishly been caught up in politics and in consequence found himself in Newgate Jail.
Abigail inwardly laughed. It was so amusing to listen to Mr. Harley on the theme of Defoe while the Queen repeated at intervals. “Such a clever man, Mr. Dryden. Hill do remind me. We will have the play at St. James’s for my birthday.”
And when they left they must have been deeply disappointed, for they had gained nothing, in Abigail’s opinion, but perhaps a little understanding that the Queen was not what they had believed her to be.
She would have been surprised if she could have heard their conversation as they sauntered across the path.
“What did you think of her, St. John?”
“Scarce a beauty and devilish sly.”
“It may well be that her mental accomplishments make up for her lack of physical attraction.”
“She’s quiet as a mouse. They call her the shuffling little wretch at court, so I heard. Danvers and the rest are pleased to put on her all the most unpleasant tasks.”
“Danvers and the rest could well be fools.”
“Come, Master, don’t tell me you’re taken with the woman.”
“Mightily taken.”
“And you not a man for the wenches.”
“Your mind runs along wearisomely well-worn paths, Harry. Did you know there are other games more amusing, more exciting than those of the bedchamber?”
“An impossibility,” answered St. John.
“Rake! Libertine! You’re missing much in life.”
“You are proposing to play games with Mistress Hill?”
“Perhaps. She’s a deep one that. Worth watching. Who is she, do you think?”
“Brought to court by Viceroy Sarah, being some distant relation in service, which could not be tolerated, of course. Connection of Her High and Mightiness a serving wench! Never! Better to have her at Court—in a post of spy, you understand.”
“So she is a Marlborough spy! I doubt it, Harry. I doubt it very much.”
Robert Harley was smiling complacently. He was well pleased with his visit to the green closet.
Abigail would have been surprised, for he had failed completely to do anything for Daniel Defoe. She did not guess then that he had achieved his main object. He had seen Abigail Hill and had decided that he had not been mistaken in her.
It was on the night of the 26th November that the great storm broke over London.
The Queen slept through the beginning for she could sleep through most things, but the sound of the rising wind which seemed to shake the very battlements of St. James’s Palace kept Abigail awake.
She rose from her pallet on the floor in the Queen’s room and wrapped her robe about her, for she was certain that even Anne could not continue to sleep through such noise. Even as she did so the chamber was lightened by a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by the loudest clap of thunder Abigail had ever heard.
“What is it?” called Anne. “Hill! Hill!”
“I am here, Madam. It’s the thunder and lightning. It seems to be a bad storm. Shall I make some tea or would Your Majesty prefer brandy?”
“I think brandy in the circumstances, Hill.”
Abigail had disappeared, but before she was back there was another violent clap and the sound of falling masonry.