Free Devil Water by Anya Seton Page B

past patient of the Doctor’s, and because he was, as yet, much flattered by inclusion among the nobility.
    “He looks very odd,” said Lady Stamford, “though I’ve heard he’s written some pretty pastorals, and is quite the thing at Will’s Coffeehouse these days.”
    “Oh, those Whigs have no discrimination at all!” said the Countess acidly. “Pack of warmongers and place-seekers, running after the Marlboroughs, toadying that dreadful Duchess -- don’t speak to me of Whigs!”
    Lady Stamford quite agreed, but felt it only fair to remark that the Duke of Marlborough had won some glorious victories for England against France, and that one might even hope the war would soon be over. Her friend retorted that it never would be, unless the Tories got in, though there seemed to be a dawning hope of that, and forgetting for the moment her disappointment in Dr. Radcliffe’s guests, she leaned forward whispering, “Have you heard that Her Majesty will not speak to the Duchess of Marlborough any more -- is casting her off? And high time too. Such insolence that woman has!”
    Lady Stamford nodded. They pieced together the court gossip they had heard. Queen Anne’s long domination by Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough was ended. The quiet, insinuating chamberwoman Abigail Masham was the new favorite, an excellent thing, since Mrs. Masham intrigued for the Tories as ably as the Duchess had intrigued for the Whigs. The Duchess had even managed to place all members of her family in the highest state positions. Now there was hope of overthrowing the whole lot of Marlboroughs. The Queen might vacillate for years, as she had, but once her mind was settled, or she allowed a stronger mind to settle it, she could be as stubborn as a tortoise. “Like she is in naming her successor,” said Lady Stamford, who was a secret Jacobite. “Nobody can make her speak.”
    “But surely the succession’s all settled on Hanover!” cried the Countess. “Willy-nilly we must have those Germans in, I fear. And ‘tis perhaps better than a Papist king.”
    Lady Stamford did not think so, but she smiled and said pleasantly, “I wonder to hear you, my lady, who are a Stuart say that, and many believe that if Her Majesty actually names her brother as her successor he might go Protestant, and if he did not, he would certainly guarantee freedom of worship to his subjects.”
    “True, true,” said Lady Lichfield vaguely. Queen Anne might live for years and her successor was not of great importance to a harassed mother just then. She had just noticed that Betty was almost sitting on the arm of Mr. Pope’s chair and was laughing down at him in a saucy provocative fashion. The Countess rose, intent on putting a stop to such behavior, but was checked by the arrival at last of their host.
    Dr. Radcliffe stamped in, flourishing his gold-headed cane and crying, “Welcome, welcome, my good friends! A thousand apologies for my unavoidable absence!” There was snow on his boots, snow on the collar of his cape, from which a servant was disentangling him, snow mingled with the silver-gray of his peruke. His great nose flamed red from the cold as well as from the brandy which the Duke of Beaufort had given him. “Ecod!” he cried. “ ‘Twill be a good old-fashioned Christmas, and we must all make merry! Bring a bowl of punch!” he said to the footman. The Doctor’s shrewd little eyes twinkled as he greeted each of his guests, and then he turned towards the Duchess of Bolton, who had drawn away from Charles and was smiling tenderly at her host.
    “Ah my darling Duchess,” cried the Doctor lumbering over to her. He seized her hand and kissed it with lingering gusto. “Did you miss me, hey, m’dear? Has young Radcliffe been diverting you? Get up, you puppy, and let me sit here!”
    Charles was already up, and glad enough to yield his place, for matters had moved fast indeed on the sofa. He was choked with excitement, his head was hot, his hands were