The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II by Jean Plaidy

said. “Nothing could delight me more. And soon you will have a little brother . . . or sister. That will be wonderful, will it not?”
    I said it would, but I could not help thinking of those other little brothers who had lived a while in our nursery and caused great concern until they passed on.
    I hoped this one would not be like them.

THE CHASTE NYMPH
    Our household was no longer at Richmond. It had been moved to St. James’s, that ancient palace which had once been a hospital for women suffering from leprosy. That was years ago, before the Norman Conquest, of course. It was dedicated to St. James and the name remained when it became a palace. Like Richmond, it was a place full of memories, and because of my growing awareness of all the murmurings about my father’s leanings toward Catholicism, I thought of my namesake, Mary, who had lived here when her husband, Philip II of Spain, had gone away. He had not been a very kind husband; he was obsessed by his religion and such people are often too busy doing their duty toward God to be over-concerned with people. Perhaps they felt people were not very important. However, in spite of the fact that nowadays I often thought of sad, cruel Queen Mary who had ordered people to be burned at the stake because they would not become Catholics, I was happy to be near my father and Mary Beatrice.
    It was at this time that I first met Frances Apsley. Frances’s father was a friend of mine, and because of this she had been given a place at court.
    From the moment I met her I was entranced. When she was presented to me I felt that I should have been the one to kiss her hand and do homage to her because of her excellence, which I could never match.
    She was a few years older than I was and when she talked to me I was too bemused to take in what she had said. I did gather that her father was Sir Allen Apsley.
    My father had been good to hers, she told me.
    When she was about to leave, I said that we must meet again.
    â€œI have my duties,” Frances told me.
    â€œI shall write to you,” I said, and Frances replied that that would give her great pleasure.
    I was so filled with admiration that I must have shown it, and when I met Mary Beatrice I spoke of Frances Apsley to her.
    â€œAh yes,” said my stepmother. “A very pleasant girl, and a beautiful one. Your father is friendly with her father. They were together during the long exile. Sir Allen was always loyal and worked hard to bring about the Restoration.”
    It was the beginning of that passionate friendship which I shall remember all my life. I was very fond of Anne Trelawny; she was my confidante and had been from childhood—but this was different. Anne was to me just another girl, older than I, wiser in many ways, my very good friend. But Frances was like a goddess.
    I thought of her a good deal and I decided I would write to tell her of my feelings. This I did and her response was immediate. She told me that she cared for me in the same way as I did for her and that we must meet whenever it could be contrived and when we could not we would write to each other.
    So began our romantic correspondence. We would ask people to take our letters to each other. I prevailed on my drawing master, little Richard Gibson, to do it and he was eager to oblige. I noticed that people were very ready to please me nowadays. True, my stepmother was pregnant, and if she had a son my position would change immediately, but the son had not yet put in an appearance and royal babies had a habit of either being girls or not surviving.
    Sarah Jennings was a good courier although I did not altogether trust her. I preferred to use my little dwarf.
    Frances had given a new zest to the days. Each morning when I awoke, my first thoughts were of her. Should I see her that day? Would there be a letter from her? Life was wonderful. I loved and was loved.
    I wrote to her and told her that I felt toward her as though she were