Henrietta burst into a loud laugh. For the thought of Abigail Hill on the stage charming Kings and Queens, and the nobility falling in love with her, was quite comic.
Elizabeth was rolling on her chair with glee; Anne could not suppress a smile; and Henrietta went on laughing. Only Abigail Hill sat quietly, plying her needle, seeming serene.
But beneath that calm there was dislike for this family which became stronger with every week she spent in their house.
Yes, it was certainly humble pie and bitter bread which was eaten at St. Albans.
When the Earl came to St. Albans there was a change in the household. He was in some sort of disgrace, Abigail gathered, because of a plot in which his name had been mentioned; it was, as usual, a scheme to bring back James II who had fled to France when William and Mary had taken his throne.
Sir John Fenwick was executed on Tower Hill, and Marlborough had thought it wise to keep in the shadows. Hence his stay at the house.
“Now,” said the cook, “we must be careful what we serve at table for he will want to know the cost of the meat in the pie and why we did not use more pastry and less meat because he will know that the cost of one is greater than the other.”
“The meanest lord I ever worked for,” was the comment of a groom. “He’ll have us catch the last second of daylight before lighting the lanterns. Every penny counts with my lord.”
And so it seemed. His man-servant had said that he possessed only three coats and that these had to be watched carefully so that the slightest tear could be mended at once in order to preserve the life of the garment. He would walk miles through the mud when in London rather than spend the coach fare; and most extraordinary of all, his secretaries said that he never dotted his i’s because he considered it a waste of ink to do so.
Abigail wondered what he would think of her. He would not want to give her food and shelter unless she earned them. If she did not she would surely be more of a liability than a candle or a drop of ink.
She was surprised, therefore, when she met the Earl. He was tall, very well proportioned and outstandingly handsome; his hair was fair, almost the same colour as Sarah’s; his eyes, between well defined brows, were startlingly blue and his features were finely chiselled; but what was so unusual in this family was the serenity of his expression. As soon as she saw him, Abigail understood why Sarah, who seemed incapable of loving anyone but herself, loved him almost as much, and why the notorious Lady Castlemaine had jeopardized her position with the King to become his mistress. There were perhaps more handsome men, but none, Abigail was sure, who possessed such overwhelming charm. John Churchill was courteous to the meanest servant and he did so with an air of not being able to act in any other manner. There was no hint of the meanness of which Abigail had heard so much, although she was quickly to discover that it was by no means exaggerated.
He was charming to Abigail, noticing her as soon as he was in her company, enquiring if she was happy in his household as though it was a matter of concern to him. Abigail, possessing a serenity to match his own, was able to look on at herself being charmed by him and yet remain completely aloof. She wondered whether it was not in her nature to idealize any one person. Perhaps she had suffered such hardship that the prevailing need was to protect herself; and until she felt herself securely settled in life—and whoever in a changing world was ever that?—she would continue to keep one motive in mind.
All the same it was pleasant to find the Earl so different from the rest of his family. If he thought she was a drag on the household expenses he gave no indication of this. How different from his wife!
He even had news of her brother and sister.
“Your young brother is to leave his school for a place has been found for him as page in the household of the Prince of Denmark—husband of Princess Anne,” he told her.
“But that is indeed good news!” she said, lowering her eyes. Oh, lucky John! she thought, fiercely envious for a moment, comparing this life of servitude as poor relation with the opportunities given to her brother and sister.
“He has his eyes on the Army,” went on the Earl. “He’s set on it, and if a lad wants to be a soldier, then so should he be—for such make the best soldiers. We shall see; and I promise you that if there is an opportunity later when he is older, he shall have it, if it is in my power to give it.”
“You are good, my lord.”
“The boy is my wife’s cousin, and I would do what I can for him. He’ll have to be patient though, for as yet he is only old enough for the Duke of Gloucester’s army. When your brother goes into action it should be with more than a wooden sword, eh? And that reminds me of your sister. She asked me to send a message to you. She is happy in her work, and trusts you are the same.”
He smiled at her so charmingly that she answered that she was.
She was glad that he was in the house even though it did mean that the candles were doused early and every economy must be practised. It seemed strange to Abigail that a man who, according to his wife, was a genius capable of holding the highest post in the country should be concerned about the consumption of candles; but she accepted this as one of the idiosyncrasies of the great and was thankful for his presence.
The Earl had been in the house less than a week when the Marlborough outriders arrived at the house to say that the Countess of Marlborough was on her way.
Sarah Churchill swept into the house like a tornado—as Alice had once described her advent. Pots and pans were polished, so was furniture; and there was a smell of baking in the kitchen. The Earl was so delighted at the prospect of seeing his wife that he did not calculate the cost of this extra activity. From a window Abigail watched him go out to greet her. She saw him take her hands, stand a little way from her as though to see her more clearly; then he clasped her in a prolonged embrace. And what would my Lady Marlborough think of that? He was crushing her head-dress but she did not seem to mind. Abigail marvelled to see them laughing together; she had never seen Lady Marlborough look at anyone else like that and would not have believed that she could.
They came in and Abigail could hear her voice penetrating the house.
“And where is my family? Why are they not here to greet me?”
But of course they were all there. They would not dream of displeasing her.
She did not ask for Abigail Hill; as Abigail guessed, she had forgotten her existence.
Lady Marlborough was never happier than when in the company of her husband. Although she loved intrigue and to enjoy it she must live close to the Princess Anne, and if Marlborough were ever to achieve the fame which was his due he could not do so, as she would say, “in his wife’s pocket,” these brief sojourns at St. Albans with her husband and family were the happiest periods of Sarah Churchill’s life.
This time a purpose other than pleasure had brought her to St. Albans; and it was one which she would only discuss with her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber.
There she sat at her mirror and let her rich hair, which he loved so much, fall about her shoulders.
“Oh my dear Marl,” she said, “I am sick to death of this waiting. How long can he live, do you think?”
“It’s a question we have been asking ourselves for a very long time, my love.”
“H’m? Sometimes I think he goes on living just to spite us.”
Marlborough laughed. “Well, my dear, you can hardly expect him to die to please us.”
“We are not the only ones who would be pleased. I wish he’d go back to Holland. We could manage very well without him here. I had thought the crown would be on my fat stupid Morley’s head by now.”
“Hush!”