over her chair, she was painted, erect, majestic, on a throne floating amid clouds, adored by the Graces, attended by the Muses, a bright sword held upright in one hand, the scales of justice dangling from the other, while at her feet a cornucopia spilled out the riches of her realms.
"The Duchess is very wrathful," she said in her flat tone. "She wants me to dismiss you. I asked what you had done. She said you had been guilty of the basest ingratitude. That you owed her the smock on your back; nay, your very life."
"It is true, ma'am."
"Then you
have
been ungrateful?"
"While I was employed by the Duchess, I served her loyally."
I knew better than to get ahead of the Queen. In her good time she would ask me all the questions that she wished answered. Royalties are not like other persons. They are naturally suspicious, even of those whom they most wish to trust. From childhood they have been surrounded by masks.
"What about after your employment had ceased?"
"I was then in the service of Your Majesty. Does the Duchess suggest that my first duty was still to her?"
The Queen grunted. "She says you deserted her for me."
"It was she who placed me in Your Majesty's household. Did she mean my first duty still to be to her?"
"She claims that having proved a deserter once, you may prove so again. That you are not to be trusted."
"Assuming me to be treacherous, to whom could I betray the Queen of England?"
"To France. To my brother at St. Germain."
When the Duchess threw stones, she certainly picked large ones! But I wondered if even she would have made so reckless an accusation. Could it have been the Queen's idea? I shuddered, recalling as a child being dragged by my brother Jack to see a man hanged and quartered for treason. I had screamed and closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, but not before I had witnessed horrors that I still think of when I wake up in the early morning.
"I have no friends in the court of St. Germain, ma'am. The Duchess has a sister there."
The Queen was silent for several moments. "I told her I was going to keep you," she said at last.
"Bless you, ma'am!"
She looked at me in her steady, sad way. When I say there was something cowlike in that gaze, it sounds impossibly impudent. Yet there it was, the hurt, suspicious, resigned look.
"You don't want to leave me, child?"
"Forgive me, ma'am." I leaned over to press my lips upon her gouty hand. "I love Your Majesty. I love Your Majesty, God forgive me, more than I love my husband. More even than I loved my poor father."
It was true, and the Queen believed it. That was the whole secret of the rise of Abigail Hill. The Queen had become my life. People will say it is impossible to love a queen entirely for herself, that the desire to approach a monarch is too strong an urge not to pre-empt a good part of what might otherwise have been a natural affection. And then it may be argued that Queen Anne lacked the personality that would have inspired such devotion had she been born in a humbler sphere. These things may be valid, yet the love that was inspired in me, as a subject or a servant or even a nurse, was still a complete and abiding love. However it came, whencesoever it came, it was the force of my existence.
"I shall
not
give in to the Duchess," the Queen observed now. "I shall not give in, no matter how she rants and raves."
"Surely, once Your Majesty has made clear her decision not to discharge me, there need be no further discussion of the matter."
The Queen's eyebrows rose. "You know your former mistress better than
that,
child. She does not style herself Mrs. Freeman for nothing."
"But Your Majesty can cease to be Mrs. Morley! She can be Mrs. Freeman's sovereign again. Until the Duchess decides to accept Your Majesty's decision!"
The Queen sighed. "Mrs. Freeman is a wonderful woman. She has done a great deal for me. But she has used me sorely in recent years. I think no one who has seen us together could deny that." Her voice
"The Duchess is very wrathful," she said in her flat tone. "She wants me to dismiss you. I asked what you had done. She said you had been guilty of the basest ingratitude. That you owed her the smock on your back; nay, your very life."
"It is true, ma'am."
"Then you
have
been ungrateful?"
"While I was employed by the Duchess, I served her loyally."
I knew better than to get ahead of the Queen. In her good time she would ask me all the questions that she wished answered. Royalties are not like other persons. They are naturally suspicious, even of those whom they most wish to trust. From childhood they have been surrounded by masks.
"What about after your employment had ceased?"
"I was then in the service of Your Majesty. Does the Duchess suggest that my first duty was still to her?"
The Queen grunted. "She says you deserted her for me."
"It was she who placed me in Your Majesty's household. Did she mean my first duty still to be to her?"
"She claims that having proved a deserter once, you may prove so again. That you are not to be trusted."
"Assuming me to be treacherous, to whom could I betray the Queen of England?"
"To France. To my brother at St. Germain."
When the Duchess threw stones, she certainly picked large ones! But I wondered if even she would have made so reckless an accusation. Could it have been the Queen's idea? I shuddered, recalling as a child being dragged by my brother Jack to see a man hanged and quartered for treason. I had screamed and closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, but not before I had witnessed horrors that I still think of when I wake up in the early morning.
"I have no friends in the court of St. Germain, ma'am. The Duchess has a sister there."
The Queen was silent for several moments. "I told her I was going to keep you," she said at last.
"Bless you, ma'am!"
She looked at me in her steady, sad way. When I say there was something cowlike in that gaze, it sounds impossibly impudent. Yet there it was, the hurt, suspicious, resigned look.
"You don't want to leave me, child?"
"Forgive me, ma'am." I leaned over to press my lips upon her gouty hand. "I love Your Majesty. I love Your Majesty, God forgive me, more than I love my husband. More even than I loved my poor father."
It was true, and the Queen believed it. That was the whole secret of the rise of Abigail Hill. The Queen had become my life. People will say it is impossible to love a queen entirely for herself, that the desire to approach a monarch is too strong an urge not to pre-empt a good part of what might otherwise have been a natural affection. And then it may be argued that Queen Anne lacked the personality that would have inspired such devotion had she been born in a humbler sphere. These things may be valid, yet the love that was inspired in me, as a subject or a servant or even a nurse, was still a complete and abiding love. However it came, whencesoever it came, it was the force of my existence.
"I shall
not
give in to the Duchess," the Queen observed now. "I shall not give in, no matter how she rants and raves."
"Surely, once Your Majesty has made clear her decision not to discharge me, there need be no further discussion of the matter."
The Queen's eyebrows rose. "You know your former mistress better than
that,
child. She does not style herself Mrs. Freeman for nothing."
"But Your Majesty can cease to be Mrs. Morley! She can be Mrs. Freeman's sovereign again. Until the Duchess decides to accept Your Majesty's decision!"
The Queen sighed. "Mrs. Freeman is a wonderful woman. She has done a great deal for me. But she has used me sorely in recent years. I think no one who has seen us together could deny that." Her voice
Similar Books
The Storm's Own Son (Book 2)
Anthony Gillis
Love After War
Cheris Hodges
The Accidental Pallbearer
Frank Lentricchia
Hush: Family Secrets
Blue Saffire
Ties That Bind
Debbie White
Inherited by Her Enemy
Sara Craven
Sly the Sleuth and the Sports Mysteries
Donna Jo Napoli
0316382981
Emily Holleman