“Nonsense, Marl. No one can hear, and if they could they wouldn’t dare talk of what I say.”
“One can never be sure where our enemies are.”
“In our own house! My dearest, we are perfectly safe here. Now I want to talk sense. When the great day comes we must be ready, must we not? My dearest Marl, you have genius, I know. And I can do as I will with Morley. But we have our enemies and I believe it is time we began to build up our defences.”
“My dearest Sarah is becoming a general, it seems.”
“Now listen to me. Even when my fat friend is on the throne, she will not be all powerful. There will be her ministers. We shall never have an absolute monarchy again. We need friends, Marl, and we need them badly.”
“And, Sarah dear, I do not think we are very popular, you and I. There is only one person in the world whom I can absolutely trust—and that is you.”
“Why, bless you, Marl, you and I are one and nothing on earth can alter that. But we are going to need friends. Do you agree?”
“Friends are always useful.”
“Useful! They are a necessity.”
“Where shall we find them?”
“By binding them to us.”
“With what?”
“Sometimes I think the most brilliant soldier in the world is lacking in strategy.”
“It is a mercy he has a wife who can supply his lack.”
“Seriously, have you forgotten that we have marriageable daughters?”
“Marriageable. Why Henrietta is …”
“Sixteen, Marl. Ripe for marriage.”
“Oh, not yet.”
“You are like all fathers. They want to keep their daughters children for ever just to give themselves an illusion of youth.”
He smiled and said, “Well, who have you in mind for Henrietta?”
“Godolphin’s boy, Francis,” she said.
Marlborough stared at her.
“Well?” demanded Sarah. “What objections could you have, my lord, to such an alliance? Godolphin is one of the cleverest men in the country. He would be a power, as you would, my dear Marl, on your own; but together … You see what I mean?”
“You mean an alliance between the Churchills and the Godolphins.”
“I do, and how better to strengthen such alliances than by marriage. Godolphin’s grandchildren will be ours. One family instead of two. Would that not be a good thing?”
“There is one thing you have forgotten.”
“And what is that?”
“Do you remember how we made up our minds to marry?”
“Yes, and your family stood against us. I was not good enough for the Churchills. I remember well. They had someone else in mind for you.”
“That is my point. No one would have induced me to marry anyone but you.”
“I should think not.”
“So I say there is one point you have omitted. What of Henrietta?”
“Henrietta will do as she is told.”
“She is your daughter and mine.”
“Bah!” said Sarah. “I’ll have no disobedience from my children.”
The Earl laid his hand on her arm. “Be gentle,” he begged.
“Are you telling me how to treat my own daughter?”
“I am suggesting how you should treat mine.”
She smiled at him. She adored him; he was the one person who could reason with her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“We will invite them here. Francis and his father. And we will not mention marriage to the young people until we know they are fond of each other.”
“Romantic nonsense!” said Sarah.
But she agreed.
Sarah had long been watchful of Sidney Godolphin, for she had marked him out as a man whom it would be better to have for a friend than an enemy. The Godolphins were a noble Cornish family and Sidney had found favour with Charles II, who had summed up his regard for him in one of his apt phrases. “Here is a man,” he had said, “who is never in the way and never out of it.” That was good praise from Charles. It was often the case that a man who was honoured in one reign was out of favour in the next. Sidney Godolphin was too clever to allow this to happen to him. He had received his title when Charles had made him Secretary of State and when Charles died he remained one of James’s most trusted ministers and was appointed Chamberlain to James’s Queen, Mary Beatrice. He was one of those Tories who had remained faithful to James longer than most; and when he had seen that the exile of James was inevitable, he had voted for a Regency. His fidelity to James had never really wavered, and when Marlborough, deciding that he could not satisfy his ambition through William, had turned to the “King across the Water,” this had made a bond between him and Godolphin. Like Marlborough, Godolphin had wished to show his friendship with James while at the same time he feigned a friendship with William; it was a case of waiting to see which side could be the one an ambitious man should be on; and because of William’s undoubted qualities it seemed certain that he was the one whom they must serve—but at the same time they were watchful of what was happening at the Court of St. Germains where the exile lived with his Queen and the son whose birth had caused such a controversy in England and who was acknowledged by Louis of France as the Prince of Wales.
Godolphin’s name, with that of Marlborough, had been mentioned in the case of Sir John Fenwick; and although neither he nor Marlborough had been brought to trial over that affair, Godolphin had been forced to resign. This was the state of affairs when Sarah had the idea that the two families united by marriage could form the nucleus of a ruling party which would of course be dominated by the Marlboroughs.
In his youth Sidney had made a romantic marriage. He had fallen in love with Margaret Blagge, one of the most beautiful and virtuous young women at Court. Margaret, a maid of honour to Anne Hyde, who was Duchess of York and mother to the Princesses Mary and Anne, had taken part in John Crowne’s Calista which had been written that the Princess Mary might perform and make her debut at Court. Although Margaret had believed dancing and play-acting was sinful and had been forced to play a part in this, she had scored a success as Diana the Goddess of chastity. Sidney watching her had fallen more deeply in love than ever before. Margaret seemed to him unique; for to find a girl who was virtuous at the Court of King Charles was rare.
He often thought of those days of courtship, the secret marriage, the friendship with John Evelyn, the writer, who, recognizing Margaret’s rare qualities, loved her as though she were his daughter. A strange interlude for an ambitious man, to discover that there was a life which did not depend on gaining advantages over other men, fighting for power, enviously watching the progress of rivals—days which later he was to look back on as a dream. In due course they announced their marriage; he remembered the house they had lived in, in Scotland Yard near the palace of Whitehall, during the days when they had been awaiting the birth of their first child.
It was not wise to brood on those days; there was too much sadness in nostalgia for a past which was lost for ever; but he could not stop thinking of how they had walked in the gardens, always talking of the child. There had come that September day—September days had ever after seemed tinged with sadness for him—just as the green leaves were touched with brown; their edges dry and shrivelled ready to fall from the trees to be trampled underfoot or swept up and destroyed, as his happiness had been. But how was he to guess then that soon his joy in life would be gone as surely as those bright leaves upon the trees.
Young Francis had been born on the third day of September—a healthy boy, which was what they had secretly longed for, although neither of them had admitted it. They had stoutly declared to each other that the sex of the child was unimportant, lest the other should think either one would be disappointed.
But a boy brought that moment of triumph. For two days they were at the peak of happiness. Then she took fever, and a week after the birth of Francis, Margaret was dead.