All through those summer months Monmouth waited for news of the Duchess’s accouchement. It was a sad day for him when he heard that she had been brought to bed of a boy.
The Duchess of York was on her knees in the small antechamber and with her was Father Hunt. They prayed together for a while and when she rose the priest said to her: “I thank God that you are now rid of doubt.”
“I thank Him too,” she answered. “I will never now falter. Coming to understanding has given me great comfort.”
“You will find greater comfort.”
“Father, this is something I have told no one yet. I fear I have not long to live.” She touched her breast. “I have a pain which grows more agonizing with the passing of the weeks. I have known others who have had such a pain. It increases and in time kills.”
“Then, Your Grace, it is good that you have come to understanding in time.”
She bowed her head in assent. “Father, I have talked to my husband of the doctrines of our Church and I know him to be interested. Before I die I should like to bring him to the truth. There are also my children.”
“Your Grace, this is a matter for great delicacy. Speak to your husband, but use caution. Your children, it would be said, belong to the state and as this state is not yet ready to come to the light, it is necessary to exercise great caution.”
“Rest assured I shall do so,” replied the Duchess.
She left the priest and went to her apartments; and later when the Duke came to her she told him that she wanted to speak to him very seriously.
“James,” she said, “I have become a Catholic.”
He was not surprised; she had betrayed her leanings to him many times. In fact, the Catholic religion appealed to him; he liked its richness, its pomps and mysteries. He had often thought how comforting it would be to confess his sins and receive absolution; and when one sinned again to know that one had but to repent and do penance to wipe out the sin. The less colorful Protestant church was not so appealing. His mother had been French and a Catholic; his grandfather had been a Huguenot, it was true, but he had changed his religion when it was expedient to do so with the remark which had never been forgotten that Paris was worth a Mass. Charles was like that. He would change his religion for the sake of peace. But James was different. He was idealistic and a man who could not see danger when it was right under his nose. Perhaps he even found a thrill in courting danger. Perhaps the very fact that he knew the disquiet which would arise through the country if one so near the throne became a professed Catholic, made the proposition the more irresistible.
He took her hands and they talked long and earnestly.
“I will instruct you in the doctrines, James,” said Anne. “I am sure you will want to be converted as I have been.”
It was a new bond between them. Since his attack of smallpox they had become closer, and when they had lost their newly-born son their grief had been great, but it was a shared sorrow and his amorous adventures outside the marriage bed had never been fewer.
“We must be careful,” he said. “This must be a secret between us. You will have to be cautious when you are with the priest. The people would be against us if they knew.”
“You in particular, James. For myself I do not believe I am long for this world. I have not told you before, but I think you should know now. I have a recurring pain in my breast and I know it is serious.”
He was horrified. “But the doctors …”
“They can do nothing. I know something of what this means. I did not want to tell you, but now you will understand my urgent desire to prepare myself. And I do not want to leave you, James, knowing that I did not share with you all that I have come to understand.”
They wept together, he deeply regretful of all the anxiety he had caused her, she sorry for her nagging sarcasm.
“We have been like two children lost in a wood,” she said. “But now we see a light.”
He demanded to know more of her illness and would not accept her pessimistic view.
He cares for me in very truth, she thought; and somehow the knowledge made her the more sorrowful.
“The light is the Holy Catholic Faith, James. Do not ignore it,” she entreated.
He told her that he loved her; that he had never regretted the decision he had made when all his family were against him. They would be together now … for the time that was left to them.
“Together in mind and body, James?” she asked.
“In all things,” he answered.
The Duchess and Duke came frequently to Richmond. They wanted, they said, to be together with their children.
Mary was horrified to find that her feelings had changed toward them. She could no longer relax happily in her father’s arms. When he took her on to his knee she could not help thinking of Margaret Denham who had died because of him. It was complicated and difficult to understand, but it was repellent. Her mother had changed. She had become grotesquely fat; her face was the color of uncooked pastry; and with her bloodshot eyes she was not an attractive sight. Mary could not help comparing her with some of the beautiful women she saw frequently.
Sometimes her father would declare that they were all going to be happy together. He would tell her, Anne and poor little Edgar, who was growing more weak every day, stories of his past; but somehow they no longer fascinated as they once had. Mary was beset by doubts that they were only true in part; that if one could look into them with the farsighted eyes of an adult one would discover something unpleasant.
One day the Duchess sent for Mary, and when she went to her apartments the little girl found her mother lying on her bed. Her face was sallow and the sight of her propped up on pillows with her hair falling loose about her shoulders made Mary want to glance away.
She took Mary’s hand and bade her sit on the bed so that they could be close.
“You are the eldest of the family,” she said. “Always remember that.”
“Yes, mother.”
“There is one thing I want you always to do for me. Look after Anne.”
“But …”
“I know you are thinking that you are only a little girl and that you have your father and me, but I am thinking of the future when we may not be here.”
Mary’s face puckered. “You are going away?”
“No, my dearest child, not now. I am thinking of the time ahead when perhaps it will be necessary for you to be a mother to your little sister and brother. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Come and kiss me. It will seal our bargain.”
Mary hid her repulsion and solemnly kissed her mother.
Elizabeth Villiers saw Mary leaving her mother’s apartment. She looked at her slyly as though to suggest that she knew what had taken place. How could she? Mary asked herself. But she was beginning to believe that Elizabeth Villiers knew a great deal.
When they were alone together Elizabeth whispered: “Are you going to be one?”
Mary did not understand.
“It won’t be allowed,” Elizabeth went on virtuously. “We won’t let you … even if you want to.”
“I don’t understand you?”
Elizabeth put her lips close to Mary’s ear. “Your mother’s one. They are all saying so. They’re wicked. They all go to hell. That’s where your mother’s going.”