Abigail looked down at the red, flabby face, wet with tears, and understood the repulsion Sarah did not trouble to disguise.
How could Anne be so besottedly fond of that woman who would never have bothered to speak to her if she had not been Queen. One thing was clear: Anne could not escape from the spell of Sarah Churchill. Abigail thought of these last months when Anne had been perpetually bullied over this matter of Sunderland and she could not understand the Queen’s sincere grief.
“My doctors must be sent to her at once, Hill.”
“Yes, Madam. I will pass on your orders.”
“Thank you, Hill. I don’t know what I should do without you. And even you … I owe to her.”
Yes, thought Abigail, that was the irony of the situation. The more devoted Anne became to Abigail, the more grateful she must be to Sarah.
Before the thanksgiving service Sarah had recovered. She came to the Court, only a little paler than usual and certainly not in the least subdued.
The Queen embraced her warmly. “My dearest, dearest Mrs. Freeman, what anxieties I have suffered on your behalf.”
“I am recovered now. You did not think I would stay away from the thanksgiving to Marlborough, did you?”
Anne did not remind her that it was a thanksgiving to God; Sarah could not see it that way; and in any case she was really quite irreligious.
“I am so happy to see you here,” said Anne sincerely.
“I must of course decide what jewels you will wear.”
“Hill has already put them ready. We thought to save you trouble, Mrs. Freeman.”
“A chambermaid putting out your jewels! What do you expect her to choose? No, Mrs. Morley, that will not do. Those rubies. Ridiculous! They shall all be taken away and I shall make up my mind what will best become the occasion.”
“I thought Hill made a good choice.”
Sarah blew her lips, dismissing Hill and her choice. She was smiling. “I have written to Mr. Freeman. Poor man, they had told him of my illness. I would not have had him disturbed. He threatens to leave everything and come back to me.”
“Such a devoted husband! How fortunate we are … both of us. Not many women have husbands like ours.”
Sarah’s lips curled in disdain. This comparing of fat stupid George with Marl was more than she could stomach.
She went on: “I told him I should soon be well. It was the anxiety of the battle and then of course this affair at Ramillies when I might so easily have lost him. There are so many anxieties at home. I am not sure that Vanbrugh is the man for Blenheim. I don’t get on with him at all. Then of course those from whom I would expect friendship will not listen to my advice.”
Anne’s lips set sternly. In a moment, Sarah thought, she will be telling me that she can’t endure his temper and won’t have a good relationship with him. In which case I shall scream to her to stop or she’ll send me into another fit.
Sunderland shall most certainly have the post but this is perhaps not the time.
So Sarah busied herself with choosing the Queen’s jewels while Anne told her how worried she was about George’s asthma which was undoubtedly getting worse.
“He is so bad during the night, Mrs. Freeman, it breaks my heart to watch him. He worries about me. He says it is too much for me to help him, but I remind him that he is my very dear husband and that it is my privilege.”
“You should have one of his pages sleep on a pallet in the room while you have a chamber to yourself and get your rest.”
“We have shared the same bed for so many years, and he admits that he would not rest without me beside him. And nor should I without him. But do not concern yourself, dearest Mrs. Freeman. Your unfortunate Morley is well served. I have Hill sleep on a pallet in the antechamber so that I can call her at a moment’s notice. She is such a good creature. I never have to call her twice. There she is … so ready … so willing. Neither the Prince nor I know what we should do without her. And I always remember I have to thank you for her.”
“I took her from a broom, as you know, and she is eager to show me her gratitude. I have told her that she can best please me by pleasing you.”
“Dearest Mrs. Freeman, how can I ever repay you?”
Sunderland? thought Sarah. No perhaps not yet. After the ceremony. That would be the time.
Anne, dressed in a splendid gown over a petticoat of cloth of gold, adorned by the jewels of Sarah’s choice looked very different from the poor creature who a few days before had sat slumped in her chair, her feet in wrappings that concealed the poultices.
She looked at George in his embroidered suit which was trimmed with silver. So splendid he looked and yet the sight of him broke her heart. He had had a trying night and his wheezing had frightened her. She had been obliged to call Hill three times. How comforting Hill was in the middle of the night; and how quickly she came to the call! She almost seemed to sense that she was needed.
“George,” she said, “I’m afraid it is going to be a long day.”
“I vill be viv you, my love,” George told her.
“I shall watch you, and I shall insist on your return to the Palace if you feel ill. I have told Masham to be watchful.”
George nodded and smiled at her. Poor dearest George! He was becoming fatter and more feeble every day.
Sarah looked splendid. She never overdressed on such occasions, relying on personal charms. In any case she was the wife of the hero of the occasion.
“My dear Mrs. Freeman must ride in my coach,” said Anne.
“I am sure the people would expect it,” Sarah replied.
“I am worried about George,” Anne told her.
“I agree with you that he is not well enough to accompany us. It is such a strain on him and we should not wish him to have an attack during the service.”
“I should be so anxious.”
“Then he should remain behind. Let Masham and Hill look after him. You can trust them.”
“I can certainly trust Hill and she seems to be able to manage Masham too.”
“She is very eager to please me,” said Sarah.
And she was delighted to ride in the royal coach with the Queen, with the horse and foot guards to escort them—all splendid in new uniforms for the occasion; the streets were lined with people who had come out to cheer the Queen and the wife of the hero; and the sound of music from the bands filled the air.
The Lord Mayor and Sheriffs met the Queen and Duchess at Temple Bar and led them to St. Paul’s where the Dean of Canterbury preached the thanksgiving service.
There were fireworks that night and a salute of guns was fired from the Tower.
The coffee houses were crowded; but as the day wore on it was to the taverns that the people made their way to drink to the health of England, the Queen and the Duke.
There was singing and dancing and some grew quarrelsome. In his club Harley sat with St. John and some of his literary friends—Defoe, who would always owe him a debt of gratitude, Dean Swift who liked to air his views, Joseph Addison and Richard Steele.
The wit and the wine flowed freely and it was Harley who pointed out what Marlborough’s victory cost the country in taxes and the blood of its menfolk. He pointed out too that a country’s affairs were not guided so much by the sword as the pen—a theory which, since his listeners were wielders of the pen and not the sword, they were ready to endorse.
It was a theory, Harley pointed out, that he would like to put to the test. He did not see why it should not prove very effective.
The talk went on and it was profitable talk, so Harley told St. John afterwards. They would see whether his army of writers could not achieve as resounding a victory as Marlborough’s with his soldiers.
And over the Prince’s sleeping body Abigail Hill promised to become the wife of Samuel Masham.