Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II by Jean Plaidy Page B

that the child could not survive, and there was scarcely time to baptize the little girl before she died.
    Anne was temporarily distressed, but it was easy to comfort her. She was surrounded by loving attention. First there was her husband, plump and genial, to sit by her bed and hold her hand.
    “Don’t you fret,” he said in his quaint English. “As soon as you are well enough, dear wife, we will have others.”
    There was her father, so anxious on her behalf that it was said he cared for nothing as much as his daughter.
    “My poor, dear child,” he mourned. “I understand well your disappointment. But you have shown that you are fertile. Why, scarcely were you married than you were pregnant; as soon as you are up and well there’ll be another. We all share your disappointment; but, my dearest, I can bear anything as long as my beloved child grows better every day.”
    “You are the best father a daughter ever had,” she told him.
    “Who would not be to the best of daughters?” he answered fondly.
    Her stepmother came, with the Queen, both of whom had frequently suffered similar disappointments. They condoled with her, but there was one theme of their conversation: there would soon be a baby in the cradle for Anne.
    If it were so, she would be perfectly happy, Anne declared. She had experienced motherhood, briefly and tragically, but it had made her realize that she wanted children. This one had been a girl, but there would be boys; and secretly she reminded herself that one of these boys could be King of England.
    Anne had never felt so ambitious as she did lying there in her bed surrounded by all the luxuries her father could think of—ambitious for the son she would have.
    The King came to visit her—kind, as ever, but looking older. His smile was merry, but there was a tinge of red in the whites of his eyes.
    “Don’t you fret, niece,” he said. “If ever I saw a good stud, it’s our friend George. Don’t waste too much time being the invalid and, by God’s fish, I’ll warrant you’ll soon begin to swell again!”
    It was all very gay and she felt secure and happy, sparing a thought now and then for dear Mary who had suffered miscarriages and must have sadly missed her father, stepmother, uncle, aunt, and most of all the kindness of a husband. Dear, dear George, how different he was from that hateful William, who, so reports from Holland had said, blamed Mary for the loss of her children.
    What a good family she had, and how comforting it was to feel oneself cherished!
    She was so contented that for some days she forgot the existence of Mrs. Freeman, who, to her disgust, was not allowed the liberty which had been hers before. Lady Clarendon had taken charge of the household and naturally the Duke of York paid more attention to his sister by marriage than to his daughter’s favorite woman.
    It shall not always be so, thought Sarah, and during Anne’s confinement she grew to hate the Duke and Duchess of York.
    Papists! she thought. They were nothing more than papists. Madame of Modena had swept through the apartments like a Queen bestowing little attention on Lady Churchill.
    Well, Madam, thought Sarah, you will be sorry for that. Lots of people were going to be sorry one day.

    But Anne was soon asking for Mrs. Freeman who complained to her bitterly that she had been kept from her Mrs. Morley at the time she was most needed.
    “I missed you,” Anne told her.
    “It was a pity Mrs. Morley did not demand that Mrs. Freeman be brought to her.”
    Anne yawned faintly and Sarah noticed this. She must curb her frankness with the Princess, who was of course utterly spoiled by those around her and in particular her father.
    “Well, we are together now and I shall see personally that my dear Mrs. Morley does not over-tax her strength, for I do believe that it was due to this that we have had this unfortunate tragedy.”
    “Please, do not let us talk of it. Get the cards, Mrs. Freeman, and call Barbara