As she talked William began to understand Mary more than ever before. She was not the foolish girl he had sometimes believed her to be, but a woman of intelligence and above all tolerance. William himself wanted tolerance … up to a point; and he appreciated this quality in his wife.
He listened to them discussing the preacher Jurieu who had written scurrilously of Mary Queen of Scots.
Mary offered the comment: “If what he had said was true, then he was not to blame. If Princes do ill things, they must expect that the world will take revenge on their memory since they cannot reach their persons.”
An unusual sentiment for a Princess to express, thought William. Yes, she was an unusual woman, this wife of his.
He watched her, stately, plump, her dark head bent slightly forward over the fringe. She was beautiful; and she was not without wisdom. He began to think that he had been rather fortunate in his marriage.
Never would he be able to explain to her his need of Elizabeth. Mary lacked that sexual appeal which he found in his mistress. He knew of that passionate friendship with Frances Apsley—not a physical passion that, yet it was an indication of Mary’s character. She could be firm and so very meek. She could love devotedly and at the same time had not that to offer which could make a perfect union between a man and woman.
Yet William himself was no virile man. He did not ask for great sexual passion. Mary’s docility, her willingness to find in him an ideal husband could have made him very contented with his marriage. There were only two things which stood between them: his absolute need of Elizabeth Villiers and his ignorance of what attitude she would take toward him if the throne of England were hers.
Burnet, watching them, decided that his future lay with them, guessed what plans were forming in the mind of the Prince of Orange, was aware of this gulf between them, and sought to discover what it was and if it could be bridged.
The friendship between these three grew.
For Mary it was delightful to see her husband sitting by the fire listening gravely to her and Gilbert as they talked and occasionally throwing in a remark. Not since Monmouth had gone had she felt so contented. The skirt of her dark velvet gown caressed the black and white tiles and the candlelight touched the red velvet of hangings, high windows, and painted ceiling with a light which made them more beautiful than by day. Every now and then she would close her eyes to rest them a little, or glance up from her fringe to one or other of the two men—to William so fragile under his enormous periwig, his hands as delicate as a girl’s; and Gilbert Burnet in great contrast in the black and white robes of the Church—a heavy man with coarse features illuminated by the light of a shrewd and clever mind.
The two men were bound by a common desire. They wanted James deposed and William and Mary reigning in his place, and were asking themselves, How can this be brought about without delay?
Mary talked of England too and of the days when there would be a new ruler; but the man these two wished so ruthlessly to depose was her father and it did not occur to her that when England was discussed, the future they talked of could be before her father’s death.
As the pleasant sessions continued, spies carried accounts of them to England.
James wrote to William: It was unseemly, he declared, that his enemy should be treated as a close friend of the Prince and Princess of Orange.
William sent for Mary when he received this letter.
“Your father believes he can dictate our conduct to us, it appears,” he said coldly.
Mary sighed. She hated trouble between her father and her husband, and always sought to put their differences right.
“I can understand his feelings. Dr. Burnet did preach against him.”
“For which one can only admire Dr. Burnet.”
“He is a brave man, certainly, and firm in his beliefs. I understand Dr. Burnet, William, but I also understand my father.”
“You understand his desire to bring Catholicism back to England? You understand the cruel treatment of Monmouth?”
Mary winced; she could never think of that tragedy without a deep and searing pain; and in spite of her sense of justice and her natural tolerance she felt a sudden hatred for a father who had destroyed one whom she had loved.
William went on. “And not only Monmouth which is perhaps understandable. Those others, those men who fought for him because of their convictions—what do you think of the justice they received at your father’s hands?”
“I think Judge Jeffries was to blame and that my father had no real knowledge of what was going on.”
William gave one of his rare laughs. It was not pleasant.
“I doubt whether you understand what it is like to be a slave on a Jamaican plantation. Transported from England to that hell. Yet that was the fate of many of your father’s subjects … for what reason? Simply because they hated popery.”
Mary said: “It was wrong to be so severe. But we must not forget, William, that Monmouth called himself the King.”
“It might have been that others called him that. But if you wish to excuse your father, do so. I have no wish to listen.”
“William, I do not excuse him. I …”
“Then,” said William curtly, “it may be that you begin to understand him?”
He left her and she thought of Jemmy, dancing with her, teaching her to skate, teaching her so much more than she could ever speak of; and she wept afresh for Jemmy.
Jemmy dead, bending to the block; and the cruel executioner lifting that once lovely head and crying: “Here is a traitor!”
“A traitor,” she said vehemently, “to a tyrant!”
And she knew then that she was beginning to feel toward her father as William wished her to. She was beginning to see him through William’s eyes—libertine, ineffectual ruler, the King who, while he did not declare himself openly a papist, was trying to thrust popery on a country, the majority of whose people rejected it—all that and the murderer of Jemmy!
Gilbert Burnet came to her in some haste.
“Your Highness,” he said, “something must be done. The Prince is in danger.”
Mary grew pale and cried: “Tell me more. What do you mean?”
“I have spoken to His Highness and he shrugs it aside. You know that the King of France regards your husband as an enemy.”
“I know all these things. Tell me quickly.”
“I have discovered a plot to kidnap the Prince when he drives unattended along the Scheveling sands. The idea is to get him out of Holland into France.”
“And you have told the Prince this?”
“I have warned him and he says he will know how to take good care of himself.”
“And he will take no guard with him?”
“I fear not. He said that what is to be will be and if it is destined that he shall meet such a fate then so be it.”
“I must go to him at once,” said Mary. “Pray come with me, good Dr. Burnet.”
Together they went to the Prince’s apartment. William raised his eyebrows when he saw them together; but Burnet detected the faint pleasure which showed in his face when he beheld Mary’s agitation.
“William, you must take a guard with you when you go on to the sands.”
“So, you have heard this warning?”
Dr. Burnet put in: “Your Highness, I am convinced there is a a plot and that you are ill-advised to ignore it.”
Mary clasped her hands together. “You must not ignore it, William. It would be disastrous if you were forced into France.”