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

look on him. Was it too late?
    Of course it was. I saw the despair in his eyes and I knew that if it had been at all possible to save me from this marriage he would have done so.
    The King was jovial and smiling. If he knew of my reluctance and terror, he gave no sign. My stepmother’s eyes were full of compassion. I wondered that she was present, for she was very near to the birth of her child.
    The King smiled at me affectionately and whispered that I was a beautiful bride and he was envious of the bridegroom, who was looking far from exhilarated by the proceedings. Perhaps he found it disconcerting to be confronted by an obviously reluctant bride.
    â€œWhere is Compton?” cried the King. “Hurry, man, lest the Duchess bring us a boy and then the marriage will be disappointed.”
    The Prince winced a little at this and there was a faint titter from some members of the company.
    My uncle continued to regard his nephew with a touch of cynical amusement, which I had noticed on more than one occasion.
    The service had begun. It was the culmination of a nightmare. I was in truth being married to a man I did not know and who, on a very brief acquaintance, frightened me and filled me with dislike.
    The Prince was saying that he would endow me with his worldly goods and, symbolically, laid some gold and silver coins on the book as he pronounced those words.
    Then the King, still jocular, cried: “Take them, my dear niece. Take them quickly and put them in your pocket without delay, for it is all clear gain.”
    I saw the Prince’s lips twitch with annoyance and the service continued.
    Then it was over and I was the Princess of Orange.
    How did I live through the rest of that night? I do not know. For a long time I tried to shut it out of my mind.
    I was only half aware of what was to come. I had heard only whispered comments and had hazarded deductions. I knew such things existed but I had never given a great deal of thought to the subject until the last few days when I knew the ordeal lay just ahead.
    I felt more frightened than I ever had in my life.
    There was a great deal of chatter and laughter. People came and talked to me, congratulating me. I drank some wine.
    â€œNot too much, my dear,” said the Queen. She pressed my hand. She had come to England to marry a man she had never seen, but she had been older, much older—twenty-two, I had heard it said. Mary Beatrice had been only my age. But the Queen had come to marry the King and Mary Beatrice my father. They had come to our court. I had to go to this strange place with a cold, dour husband.
    They prepared me for bed. I wished they would dispense with the old custom. I wished I could run away.
    The Queen and Mary Beatrice were there. It was part of the hateful ritual. They undressed me gently.
    Mary Beatrice looked so tired. I was sure the child’s birth was imminent. Oh, why had it not come before? Why had it not been a healthy boy? And why had the Prince of Orange not said, as it was a boy, he no longer wanted this marriage! But the child was not born and I was already married to him.
    I was told to get into the bed. I lay there, trembling. Then the Prince was beside me.
    The King was laughing. He pulled the bedcurtains, shutting us in, and as he did so, he shouted: “Go to work, nephew, and St. George for England!”
    I heard the laughter. I was aware of the darkness, and I tried to steel myself for the ordeal to come.

    ALL THROUGH MY LIFE I have endeavored to forget those events which disturb me. I have not always succeeded. The night following my wedding was one of those.
    I awoke in a daze, hating the daylight, putting my head beneath the bedclothes to shut it out. With immense relief, I found that I was alone in the bed.
    It was over—the night of pain, horror, humiliation and horrific awakening. If I had been wiser, as so many of the girls were, it would have been easier. But I had been thrust from innocence into