Abigail’s room in this household was a small attic; it was a concession, she supposed that she should have one to herself and not have to share the large one with the female servants. When she stood there for the first time, looking out through the tiny window at the countryside, momentarily she felt at peace; but that was of short duration. Young Mary had come up to look for her.
“So you really are our cousin,” she said.
“I am your mother’s cousin.”
“Then you’re not ours?”
“Oh, we are connected.”
Mary wrinkled her brows and murmured: “How odd!” Then: “How are you going to make yourself useful?”
“I shall have to wait and see what is required of me.”
“But you will make yourself useful because Mamma said you would.”
Henrietta was calling: “Mary, where are you? Are you up there with Abigail Hill?”
Henrietta came into the attic and began turning over Abigail’s belongings, which were laid out on the pallet.
“Are these all your things?” The lips curled in that half sneer which was an absolute replica of her mother’s. “Oh, and that’s Elizabeth’s old gown. Does it fit? You are thin, Abigail Hill. And why have they put you in this attic?” She looked round it and her slightly tiptilted nose sniffed disdainfully. For a moment Abigail wondered if Henrietta thought she should have been treated more as a member of the family and was disgusted that she should have been put in an attic usually reserved for a servant.
“I think,” went on Henrietta, “that you should have a room near ours. There is a small one. It’s a powder closet, but it would serve. Then you can help us dress.”
Abigail saw the point. There would be no difficulty in making herself useful; she would be shown the way. She might be a blood relation but she had been brought into the house to earn her bread.
It would be very bitter bread, Abigail thought to herself; but she restrained her thoughts; she gave no indication of how she disliked Henrietta Churchill. She was demure, acquiescing, resigned as a poor relation should be. Even Henrietta could find no fault with that.
She had settled into her place in the family. She took lessons with the girls; the governess looked down on her and even commented in her hearing that she had not bargained for teaching the likes of her. Abigail applied herself more earnestly to lessons than any of the Churchill children, but she was not commended for her industry. She did not ask for praise; outwardly she appeared grateful; and perhaps when she thought of service in Lady Rivers’ household this was just preferable. For one thing she was acquiring a little more education, which was always good; and because it was a little harder to accept insults in a house full of her own family than in one where she was frankly a servant, she was learning greater endurance. She did not attempt to assert herself; meekly she accepted the fact that she was insignificant beside these flamboyant cousins; she was quiet and they were vociferous; they were physically attractive, she was not; she had little hope of bettering herself, whereas they were dazzled by the reflection of their parents’ ambition. Abigail guessed that Lady Marlborough, who had talked so frankly before the humble Hills, would have been even more open with her own family. She had spoken as though she were certainly as important as the King, if not more so; and her children, of course, would have grand titles and positions at Court bestowed on them.
There was in Holywell an atmosphere of which Abigail soon became aware. It was a marking time, a waiting for great events. Ambition was ever-present, so that it seemed to have a personality of its own. The children were always talking of what they would do when … When what? When Anne was Queen and was ruled by their mother; when their father had complete charge of the Army. To them it seemed inevitable that this would happen, but Abigail who had been born into a family which, if not affluent, was comfortably off and had seen its decline to poverty, believed that it was never wise to crow over what might be, until it was.
Being herself Abigail soon settled into her place in the family; she was as unobtrusive as a cupboard or a table, said Anne. Nobody noticed her presence until they wanted something.
Sometimes Abigail pictured her life going on and on in this groove into which she had fallen. She had enough to eat; she had the knowledge that she was related to the Countess of Marlborough, but she had less freedom than the cook, the maids or the governess. Would it always be so?
The idea came to her that it could not go on. This was when she sat with the girls one day stitching for the poor, for Lady Marlborough had ordered that they must do this. So they sat making shapeless garments of rough material which each of them had to complete before they turned to fine needlework. As neither occupation was enjoyed by the Churchill girls it was no more distasteful to do the rough work than the fine. Abigail, stitching diligently, had completed her garment before the others.
“Here, Abigail, do fix this miserable seam for me. It bores me.” That was Henrietta—almost a young woman now. A little fretful, feeling shut in by the quiet life of St. Albans, always dreaming of what the next weeks might bring.
“If I were not myself, do you know what I should wish to be?” demanded Henrietta.
“What?” asked Anne.
Henrietta stretched her arms about her head. “An actress,” she said.
That made Anne and Elizabeth laugh aloud, while Abigail bent over her work as though to shut herself out of the discussion.
“An actress like Anne Bracegirdle,” went on Henrietta.
“How do you know of such people?” asked Elizabeth.
“Idiot! I keep my ears open. Do you know that some of our servants have been to London and to the play?”
“How strange that they should have been and we not,” mused Elizabeth.
“Plays are for low people,” added Anne.
“Indeed they are not,” retorted Henrietta fiercely. “Queen Mary went to a play. King Charles was always there and so was King James. The King does not go but that is because he hates anything that is gay and amusing. It has nothing to do with being a King.”
“The Dutch monster!” said Elizabeth with a laugh.
So Lady Marlborough talked carelessly of the King before her children, thought Abigail, and was once more astonished that one who was so careless and so vulgar could have made such a position for herself at Court.
“Queen Mary went to a play by Dryden,” said Henrietta. “I have read it. It’s called The Spanish Friar. There are some passages in it that made her blush.”
“Why?” asked Elizabeth.
“Oh, be quiet. You don’t know anything. But I should like to be an actress like Betterton and Bracegirdle. I love particularly Mr. Congreve’s play the Old Bachelor and the Double Dealer; and Dryden says he is the greatest living playwright. Oh how I should love to be on the stage.”
“Mamma would never permit it,” said Elizabeth.
“She didn’t really mean it, Elizabeth.” That was Anne.
“Of course I meant that I should love to be on the stage. I should love to play wonderful parts. Beautiful women … wicked women I should like playing best. And the King would come and see me and all the nobility.”
“Perhaps some of them would want you for a mistress.”
“Anne!”
“Well, that is what happens to actresses. And, Henrietta Churchill, if you think Mamma would ever allow it to happen to you, you are mad.”
“No, I know it won’t happen, but … I wish it would.”
Anne was suddenly aware of Abigail. “You’re sitting there … quietly listening as you always do. What do you think? Would you like to be an actress?”