The relationship was no longer perfect. This would always be between them. And worse still, she could not let herself believe that her dearest Marl still loved her.
“He must hate me,” she told herself, “because I stand between him and … that woman!”
Again he wrote to her:
“When I swear to you as I do that I love you, it is not dissembling. As I know your temper, I am very sensible that what I say signified nothing. However, I can forbear repeating what I said yesterday, which is that I have never sent to her in my life, and may my happiness in the other world as well as this depend upon the truth of this.”
It is true, she told herself. There could not be anyone else. Yet the scandals of him in his youth were true enough. He had been a philanderer then.
He was begging her to come back to him. He was reminding her that the time was short and that he could not long delay his departure. She must come back to him, live with him as his wife, believe in him.
“If the thought of the children that we have had, or aught else that has ever been dear to us, can oblige you to be so goodnatured as not to leave my bed for the remaining time, I shall take it kindly to my dying day, and do most faithfully promise you that I will take the first opportunity of leaving England, and assure you that you may rest quiet that from that time you shall never more be troubled with my hated sight. My heart is so full that if I do not vent this truth it will break, which is that I do from my soul curse that hour in which I gave my poor dear child to a man that has made me of all mankind the most unhappiest.”
When Sarah read that letter she was shaken. What was happening to them, they who had been so close, so happy all these years? She was wrong, of course she was wrong; but it was not easy for Sarah to admit that she was wrong.
Bed! she grumbled. Bed! That’s all he thinks of!
But she went to him and said: “You are my husband and I shall accompany you to Harwich to bid you farewell.”
He was pathetically eager to accept her on any grounds, but she refused to rid herself of her suspicions. She wrote an angry letter which she gave him on parting, but as she stood watching the ship disappear she was overcome by a longing for him; and with a return of that feeling which she had experienced she knew that the charge against him was false, that he loved her as wholeheartedly as she loved him; and that a madness had come to her, perhaps because she loved him so deeply, so possessively, that the very thought that he could prefer someone else drove her to fury.
There was only one thing to do and that was sit down and write the truth to him.
She had been foolish. She loved him. What madness was it that made them believe they could ever be parted or their interests be divided. She would come out to him, that she might be beside him, for the children were settled now—with the exception of Mary who was well looked after in her Court post—and she need not consider their welfare but her own inclination.
When John read the letter he was overcome with joy.
The nightmare was past. They were together in spirit again. Life was good again, intensely worth living.
He thanked her for her dear letter; he would read it again and again. She had preserved his quiet and made him believe in his life once more. There must never again be trouble between them, for there was no happiness for him without her and he dared hope that there was none for her without him.
Sarah now settled down to await his return.
BLENHEIM
Those were trying months. Tension was rising and even the people in the streets knew that what was happening on the Continent at this time could be decisive. Louis XIV was anxious to settle the European conflict and was planning a march on Vienna; his armies had already passed through the Black Forest and were with the Elector of Bavaria on the Danube. The Dutch were apprehensive at the thought of a conflict so far from home; so were the English. Sarah knew that John was not going to make the attack on the Moselle which he had allowed the Dutch and Parliament to believe. He was going to take the battle right into Germany; and when the news that Marlborough had taken his Dutch and English armies up the Rhine to Mainz there was consternation at home and in Holland.
The Tories—who had never wanted the war—were furious, and Marlborough was attacked both in the Commons and the Lords. He was exceeding orders; he was making decisions which should be left to the Government; he was conducting a war of his own.
“Impeach him!” was the cry.
Sarah was furious with those who dared suggest this—none did in her presence.
“Let him fail,” was the comment, “and we’ll have his head.”
“I’ll see them all in hell first!” was Sarah’s retort.
Anne was faithful to her. She was aware of the sly looks which came Mrs. Freeman’s way. Sarah stormed about the royal apartments as bombastic as ever—no, even more so. She was going to make them eat their words.
There was bad news from Scotland. Godolphin came in trembling to the Queen. He was always a timid creature, was Sarah’s comment. But Godolphin advised Anne to placate Scotland, for if she did not, a civil war might be the result and that would not be a very healthy position for England considering the flower of the Army was with Marlborough.
Anne then agreed to a passage in the Act of Security which allowed Scotland to choose its own King irrespective of what England did.
A backward step, was the comment; and one which could bring back the old days of war between the North and South.
It was a hot summer and George could not breathe in London so Anne and he went to Windsor.
George shook his head over the state of affairs. He was clearly thinking how different it would have been had he been allowed to be Commander-in-Chief.
“I believe in Mr. Freeman,” said Anne; and no matter what criticism was levelled at Marlborough she repeated the phrase.
Abigail had returned to her old place, for Sarah was often at St. Albans. She had found the court unendurable during those hot days and believed that if she had to endure more of Anne’s exasperating ways she would scream the truth at her which was that she was a foolish old woman and Sarah hated to be near her.
Sarah wanted none of these passionate relationships with her own sex. Sarah wanted John with her—a John returned successful from his campaigns.
She had to face the fact that the position looked grim, and that made her all the more eager for his return. But he must come triumphant or they would put him in the Tower. She remembered the agonies of those days when he had been a prisoner there.
She raged against his enemies: Rochester, Nottingham in the House of Lords; Sir Edward Seymour in the Commons. How dared they—just because he was bold and adventurous. Did they not know that that was the only way to success?
Let them beware. Marlborough would succeed and then he would be the most powerful man in England.
Anne lay back in her chair. She was so tired.
“Hill,” she called. “Hill! Oh, there you are. Never far away.”
“Your Majesty would like me to make you tea.”
“I think that would be very pleasant.”
Anne stroked the dog in her lap. Life had become very difficult lately, after having been so pleasant. Her people had loved her for bringing back the old custom of touching for the King’s Evil and then of course there was her Bounty. But wars made Kings and Queens unpopular and Mr. Freeman’s boldness was not appreciated at home. She had had news from France which she found very worrying.
There was Hill with the tea. It was so soothing.
“Your Majesty is disturbed, I fear,” said Hill.
“I am, Hill. I don’t know what is going to happen to our Armies.”
“They are safe with the Duke, Madam, do you not think?” Abigail tried to keep the note of excitement out of her voice. She had talked quite often lately with Samuel Masham about the growing unpopularity of the Marlboroughs.