The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online

and tried to prevent its taking place; and when they heard it had actually been celebrated they suggested that my father should retire and lead the life of a country gentleman somewhere away from the court. This the King refused to take seriously.
    I did not know at that time how intense the feeling against my father was becoming. If only he had not been so frank, so honest. If he had only been like the King, who leaned toward the Catholic faith but was wise enough not to let his subjects know this, how different everything might have been! But my father was no dissembler. To deny his faith would be a mortal sin to him.
    At this time I could only be glad that he had acquired such a charming bride. I understood absolutely how he had been prevailed upon to marry; and although I could never forget my mother, I ceased to mourn for her so acutely and began to like my stepmother.
    My father had said he was providing us with a playmate and this was true in a way. She was about the same age as Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, but she seemed younger and, in spite of the fact that she was the daughter of a great house, she lacked the air of superiority which characterized those two. Fifteen was young to be married, particularly when the union brought with it two stepdaughters only four and six years younger than herself.
    I sensed that she was very unhappy to have been taken away from her home and sent to a strange country and to a husband who must seem very old to her. My father was, in fact, twenty-five years her senior, but, I told myself, she would soon discover what a wonderful man he was—the best in the world—and when she did, she would cease to regret her marriage and would stop mourning because she had not become a nun, which was the life she would have chosen for herself.
    Because of my understanding and the closeness of our ages, she began to confide in me.
    â€œThe thought of marriage was very unpleasant to me,” she told me in her musical voice with the quaint accent. “I had set my heart on going into a convent.”
    I felt very sorry for her, putting myself in her place and imagining being forced to leave my father and go off to some foreign land.
    When I learned a little more about her life, I thought it was not such a tragedy for her that she had come to us. Her childhood had not been as happy as mine had.
    Poor Mary Beatrice, born to the illustrious House of Este, noted for its chivalry, its bravery, its encouragement of literature and all forms of art and civilization in general!
    Unfortunately, her father Alfonso was a victim of crippling gout and depended on his forceful wife, the Duchess Laura, who ruled not only her household but the country. Mary Beatrice could scarcely remember her father, for he had died when she was very young. There were two children, Mary Beatrice and her brother, Francisco, two years her junior.
    Her father’s brother, Rinaldo d’Este, was appointed guardian of the children on Alfonso’s death, but it was Duchess Laura who assumed command.
    â€œMy mother is a very good woman,” Mary Beatrice told me. “We did not always understand that when we were children. We thought she seemed very harsh, but it was because she was always concerned with what was best for us. You see, she thought we must never show weakness so that we might grow up strong.”
    â€œSo she was very severe with you.”
    â€œFor our own good,” insisted Mary Beatrice. “I hated soup. It made me sick once and ever after I did not want to take it. My mother said that was weakness. Soup was good and nourishing. I must overcome my petulance and folly. I must learn to
like
soup because it was good for me. So every day I must sit at table and take soup. There was always to be soup for me.”
    I shivered and had a quick picture of my mother sitting on a chair with my sister Anne beside her, a bowl of sweetmeats beside them. I could hear my mother’s voice,