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qualify this position. No, they say, Marlborough never actually betrayed his country; he simply took money from the enemy without giving return. He was perfectly willing, according to these, to let King Louis pay for Blenheim Palace if King Louis had nothing better to do with his coins. But his partisans, of whom, despite everything that has happened, I remain one, insist hotly that he never took a penny that was not his legal due, and that, however rich he waxed in office, he would have been richer yet had his emoluments matched his merit.
    All agree that he was a great soldier; to some, the greatest in our history. He never lost a battle, and he is reputed to have fought his engagements with supernal coolness and apparent ease. He would ride through Armageddon, unscathed and unsweating, in full control of the action, determined, impassive, even courteous! He seemed to have been born without fear and without temper; he moved his men in the battlefield like chess pieces at a game in his club.
    And yet he was not a cold man, as this latter description may imply. When I first knew him, he was not yet the famous warrior that he later became; he was still kept back only by the military jealousy of King William. He spent much of his time at home, bearing his enforced idleness with a quiet dignity and treating his children, whom he adored, with a kindness and familiarity rare in fathers of that day. If he had a reputation for being stingy with the household purse—and I cannot deny that he deserved it—he made up for it by the grave, unfailing courtesy with which he treated his servants, down to the lowest scullery maid.
    Everyone knows that he worshipped his wife. I cannot affirm it too strongly. He could not bear that she should suffer any pain, of mind or body. If she had even a mild headache, he would fret over her. It was strange to see this strong, silent man fussing about an obviously healthy spouse. It gave her a terrific power over him, for if he could not abide her discomfort, neither could he endure her wrath. The hero of Europe trembled before a shrew.
    But they certainly made a handsome couple. His strong, erect figure and splendid marble features, his large, serene, unblinking brown eyes were the perfect set-off for her greater animation, her sharp high notes and roving, flashing gaze. Neither would have had to look twice to find a willing partner in adultery, but everyone, friend and foe, agreed that neither ever did. Yet Sarah constantly taxed her poor faithful man with infidelity, and it is a matter of history that she sent him off on the Blenheim campaign so wretched at her accusations that it was a wonder he could even think of the enemy, let alone annihilate them. But what my reader may find hardest of all to credit is that she once made a scene over me!
    I used to see the then Earl of Marlborough almost daily at Holywell House. Like his wife, he sometimes came to watch his daughters at their lessons. But he never came when she was there. I suspect that he feared it might look as if he were interfering in a part of the household that was under her exclusive control. Milady was very strict in such matters. The daughters were
her
domain; the beloved young son and heir, Blandford, so soon, alas, to be lost to them, was his.
    One morning I began my lesson with Ladies Mary and Anne in this fashion: "Today we shall discuss the succession to the throne. If King William were to die, Lady Anne, who would be King of England?"
    "Nobody. The Princess Anne would be queen. Everyone knows that!"
    "Indeed? And her husband, the Prince of Denmark, what would
he
become?"
    "Nothing at all. He would continue to be nobody, just as he's always been."
    "I think we should try to be more respectful about members of the royal family. But very well. Prince George would be simply the consort of a queen regnant. But can you tell me this, Lady Anne? Why was King William king? Was not the late Queen Mary also a queen regnant? Why was he