Anne could not be comforted. She rocked herself to and fro in her chair and asked herself how she could live without dear Masham.
Alice Hill, sitting by Abigail’s bed, listened to her rambling, and knew that she was living in the past, in those days of uncertainty and degradation when she had been as a servant in the house of the Marlboroughs.
She wept, and Mrs. Abrahal who would always be grateful to Abigail for speaking well of her to the Queen sought to comfort her, and Mrs. Danvers took time off from the Queen’s bedchamber to come to the invalid’s bedside.
There were messages from important court personages. Viscount Bolingbroke called or sent his servant every day but Lord Oxford did not enquire once and it might have been that he was not even aware of the accident to his cousin.
Dr. Arbuthnot, who knew Abigail well, and had always admired her, used all his skill, and by great good fortune saved the life of the child which was a boy.
“Don’t fret,” he told Alice. “This is the best thing that could have happened. The child is a boy and he’ll live. Once I can get her to understand this, she’ll start to recover, I promise you.”
He sat by her bed and took her hand.
“Abigail,” he said, “can you hear me?”
She opened her pale green eyes and he thought how colourless they were, how lifeless—almost the eyes of a dead woman.
“Ah, you hear me then. Ye’ve a fine boy. Do you understand me. A fine boy.”
“Robert …” she began.
The Doctor glanced at Alice. “Is that the name she wants. Robert. Why …”
“Named for my lord Oxford,” suggested Alice.
“Ah, it may well be.”
Abigail’s eyes were open and she appeared to be listening.
“The boy’s a fine strong wee laddie,” said the doctor. “Do you want to see him?”
But Abigail had already closed her eyes. They thought that she was not aware of what was going on but this was not so. She knew that she had had an accident and that her son was prematurely born. She had been close to death and for that reason life seemed doubly precious.
Her hand was taken and held gently. She knew by whom before she opened her eyes. She thought of Samuel who was gentle and unassuming and lacked the overwhelming ambition of men like Robert Harley, Henry St. John and John Churchill. But perhaps for that reason he was capable of giving her greater devotion. Harley had failed her; St. John she would never trust; but she could rely on Samuel. He would always be there, to love and cherish her … as well as their children.
She had demanded too much of life; she had wanted a great leader to love her, but great leaders were not always successful, and there were times when they were sent to pine in exile.
She had been foolish not to accept life as a compromise. Was she a foolish romantic girl to ask for the impossible?
“Samuel,” she said. “You are there?”
She heard Alice’s voice, gruff, relieved. “Is he there? He has not been far away for the last forty-eight hours.”
No, he would not be far away when she was in danger.
“Samuel,” she repeated.
He leaned towards her. “A boy,” he said. “Arbuthnot says he will live and he is healthy and strong. Listen. You can hear him crying.”
She nodded drowsily. The doctor said: “Let her sleep now.”
“I’ll get a message to Her Majesty,” said Alice. “She asked that news be sent to her without delay. She’ll be delighted.”
“There have been messages …?” asked Abigail.
“The Queen had to be kept informed,” replied Alice excitedly. “Viscount Bolingbroke sent his servant every day.”
“My lord Oxford …”
“Oh come, you have a Queen demanding news of you. Is that not enough?”
So he had not asked for her. He cared nothing that she might have died.
“And,” went on Alice, “a husband who has not slept or eaten since you fell.”
She smiled, and closed her eyes.
Is that not enough? That phrase of Alice’s kept ringing in her mind. If it was not enough it was as much as any reasonable woman could hope for. She was not going to be foolish. She had grown wise in the last hours. Life with its compromises had become very precious.
Samuel put his head close to hers. “I hear that you wish the child to be called Robert,” he said.
“Robert!” Her voice sounded scornful. “No … I want him to be called Samuel.”
He was pleased, she sensed it.
“Samuel Masham,” she repeated, “after his father.”
Sarah was homesick. It was distressing to see poor Marl eagerly reading his letters from home, thinking as she did every day of the meadows about Holywell, the forests at Windsor, the greenness of England, the sound of English tongues.
She was not patient in exile. She was critical of the weather, scenery and people.
“Oh,” she would continually cry, “it is not as it is in England.”
It was comforting though to be with Marl for his health was not good and he needed attention; he was as homesick as she was, although not as bitter, yet, as she herself conceded having more reason to be.
It was she who ranted on about the ungrateful country which had benefited from his victories and then had turned its back on him.
Abroad they had more respect for Marlborough than they had had in England. They remembered him as the great commander here. Prince Eugene had visited them in Frankfurt for the express purpose of seeing the Duke and doing him honour which, declared Sarah grimly, was more than his Queen had done him.
There could not be enough news from home for Sarah. She laughed grimly when she heard how fond the Queen was of the Duchess of Somerset.
“I am pleased,” she said, “that she has a friend nearer her own rank than some I could name.”
Never did a day pass without her mentioning Abigail. She told everyone with whom she conversed how she had taken the wretched creature from a broom, and how ungrateful the whole family were.
There was John Hill, brother to the Creature, whom she had found as a ragged boy, clothed and fed and sent to school. And she had prevailed upon my lord Marlborough to give the lad a place in his Army which he had done, against his judgment. And how had John Hill repaid such benevolence? When wicked charges were brought against the Duke of Marlborough, he had risen from a sick bed in order to go and vote against him.
“There is gratitude for you!” cried Sarah. “Did you ever hear the like?” She would talk of how she had devoted her life to an ungrateful monarch; how she had sat for hours listening to banalities which had nearly driven her mad—all this she had done and what was the result? She was thrown aside for a chambermaid. Lord Marlborough had won honour and glory for his country; he was the saviour of England and what was his reward? Exile! He had been promised a palace, which was to be built at Woodstock and to be named after the greatest victory of all time: Blenheim. And what had happened? A fool named Vanbrugh—with whom she would never agree—had been allowed to plan it; and the money which had been promised had not been supplied. On and on she raved about the ungrateful country to which she longed to return.
“Better a cottage in England,” she would say sometimes, “than a palace anywhere else in the world.”
And her longing for home was like a physical pain.
She knew of the conflict which was raging there and longed to join in, partly because she liked to be at the heart of any conflict, partly because what happened after the death of Anne could be of such vital importance to her and her husband.
She had news of the efforts the Pretender’s friends were making to bring him to the throne and she and John spent many anxious hours discussing whether it was possible to swerve their devotion which had up till that time been given to Hanover. In fact he was in communication with Hanover at that time and was making plans as to what action he should take, should the Queen die suddenly.