It was disconcerting. Abigail Masham was a Jacobite and she would have every opportunity, fumed Sarah, for pouring poison into that stupid ear. Moreover, the Queen was a sentimental fool and would doubtless believe that by naming her half brother as her successor she was expiating her sins.
“Our only hope is her passion for the Church,” declared Sarah. “She will think very hard before she lets a papist in.”
In the meantime she and John must be content with moving from one place to another. They had stayed too long in Frankfurt and were growing restive, so they moved on to Antwerp. “Like sick people,” grumbled Sarah, “glad of any change.”
It was while they were in Antwerp that a terrible blow struck them.
Elizabeth, their third daughter, had died of the smallpox. When Sarah read the news she was stunned. Elizabeth had been well when they left England; and this blow, in addition to all their frustration and despair, was almost too great to be born. Marlborough was even more deeply affected than Sarah. He had always been more devoted to his family than she had been and when he received the news he collapsed with grief. Sarah found some solace in nursing him for in her hectoring way she was an efficient nurse, providing the patient obeyed her absolutely and John was too wretched to do anything else.
Sarah sat by his bed and they talked of her—their little Elizabeth—who now seemed to have been the most beautiful and accomplished of all their children.
“I remember,” said Sarah, “how she would marry … and she only fifteen. I thought she was too young but she would have her way. She adored Scroop and he her … and no wonder. And of course it was a good marriage. That was only eleven years ago, Marl. Twenty-six … it is too young … too young.…”
Sarah covered her face with her hands and sobbed. John tried to comfort her; he felt ill and, like Sarah, he longed for home. To be with his family … to continue with his career … to wield power … to accumulate wealth. There was so much he desired, so much that could have helped to comfort him. These were indeed dark hours.
Seeing him so distraught Sarah cried angrily: “She is happier, I doubt not, than in a world like this!”
But they continued to mourn their beautiful Elizabeth; and there was no news from home to comfort them.
In London a crisis was threatening. There was an open rupture between Oxford and Bolingbroke. The Queen’s health deteriorated every day, and the Court was in a ferment of excitement. Letters were passing between Hanover and London on one hand and between St. Germains and London on the other.
The Queen swayed between her two beloved women—Lady Masham and the Duchess of Somerset; but there were days when she was too ill to think of much but her own relief.
Oxford, who had always hated to make decisions and whose greatest weakness was his vacillation, was now uncertain how to act. He had gone over to the Whigs but still tried to placate the Tories. In view of the strength of his enemies he was doomed, and Bolingbroke was ready to destroy him. Oxford searched for the solution to his problems in the bottle, and it was not difficult to turn the Queen against a man who reeled in her presence, who now and then gave way to ribald and disrespectful comment and at the best mumbled so that she could not understand what he said.
“Our drunken dragon will soon be slain,” Abigail told Bolingbroke.
He agreed with her. They were allies, though not lovers, as Bolingbroke had expected. But that was a small matter to be shrugged aside. There were plenty of women ready to share his bed; there was only one Lady Masham to smooth his way to the Queen.
Oh, what a fool was Oxford! He had used Abigail to climb to favour, for what he owed to those têtes-à-têtes in the green closet he should have been in no doubt. And just as Abigail had given him a helping hand in the beginning now she was barring his way—more than that, she was forcing him down to disaster.
He understood; but it was too late to change. Bolingbroke had the support which had once been his. He was angry with himself … too late; and because his brain was so often fuddled by wine, he was unable to control his temper.
His good friend Jonathan Swift, appalled at what was happening, had made an attempt to reconcile him with Bolingbroke—to no avail. The rift was too wide; and Bolingbroke was too ambitious. He wanted the position Oxford now held and how could he achieve it until Oxford had lost it?
Oxford could see the end in sight. He had wanted to placate the two parties; he wanted the support of both Whigs and Tories, in the same way as he swayed between St. Germains and Hanover. After the Peace of Utrecht he should have broken away from the Tories; he saw now that he should have boldly asserted his beliefs—instead of which he had wavered, he had procrastinated—and had won the approbation of neither. Moreover he had neglected those who would have helped him; and Abigail Masham was the first, and most important of these.
Oxford was about to fall and Abigail Masham was the reason. The Court watched and waited. Why had Abigail who had once thought so highly of him, suddenly turned against him? No one was quite sure. He had not treated her with the deference she had expected and hoped for, perhaps. Was that it? He had not given her the shares she had desired in the South Seas Company. Could that be the reason? Had she been his mistress? Never. Oxford was an uncommonly virtuous man which was noticeable in a society of rakes. Had she transferred her affections to Bolingbroke? There was a rake if ever there was one! But there was no scandal of that nature attaching to Lady Masham.
No one was quite sure where that partnership had turned sour. No one could be really certain about the relationship between Lord Oxford and Lady Masham.
Abigail herself was not always sure. He had failed her, she knew; and it was not because of lack of shares in the South Seas Company, although that might have been part of it. She had dreamed a dream and he had destroyed it.
Oxford must go. Those words were being whispered throughout the Court. Bolingbroke was ready to leap into his place. It was the chance he had been waiting for.
The Queen had been persuaded by Abigail that she could no longer tolerate her Lord Treasurer. There was no doubt that he had come into her presence completely intoxicated.
“Your Majesty is disturbed and distressed by this conduct,” said Abigail. “I know how it affects you. Your health is not good enough to allow you to endure it.”
Masham was right. Anne was so weary. Sometimes she heard the arguments of her ministers going round and round in her head. There was one matter which worried her more than any other. If only her half brother would give up his religion; if only he would become a good member of the Church of England; then he would be accepted and she would be so happy. Then she could feel that she had righted a wrong; then she would be able to face her father if and when they came face to face in another life. She had tried so hard since she had become Queen to be a good and Christian woman; she had wanted above all things to right any wrong she had done. If her brother could come into his inheritance and be King of England and she could bring it about, she would have expiated that long-ago sin.
“Masham,” she said, “I have written a letter which is to be opened after my death. I want to keep it under my pillow.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The succession! thought Abigail. James Stuart will be King when she dies and he will remember that I have worked for him.
“You will not forget, Masham.”
“I will remember, Your Majesty.”