Undoubtedly at this Court card-playing was a business, and one in no way profitable to the impoverished state of the Duke’s fortune. We do not know if it were at Windsor or in London, but, after having been slighted for so long by the King, Ormonde frequently asked leave to retire from Court. He one day received the astounding intelligence that his Majesty would sup with his Grace. The cause of this sudden step was to announce the Royal intention of reinstating the Duke of Ormonde in the viceregal power in Ireland, Charles being thereto instigated, it was said, by the Duke of York, who feared the post might be offered to the Duke of Monmouth. We are inclined to believe that it was on this occasion that the Duchess prepared so sumptuous a repast as to call forth a lengthened description in Carte’s life of her husband: ‘If she had a fault, ‘twas the height of her spirit, which put her upon doing everything in a magnificent manner, without regard for expense.’ Bent on giving his Majesty a noble entertainment, the Duchess consulted her steward, who expostulated, as in duty bound, and counselled greater economy; but her Grace drew herself up, and observed with much dignity: ‘You must allow me to be a better judge of what is fitting for my own sphere;’ and so the banquet cost over £2000!—if we may trust the biographer so often quoted. The Duke, who loved her dearly, never interfered with her financial arrangements, though he must often have had reason to regret them.
He was once betrayed into a melancholy jest on this subject. The Duchess had built Dunmore Castle for her jointure-house, at a large cost, and one day, as the Duke was walking with a friend on the leads of Kilkenny Castle, which commanded a fine view of the surrounding country, the new castle and grounds forming a conspicuous object in the landscape,—‘Your Grace,’ observed his companion, smiling, ‘has done a great deal here; but yonder you have done more.’
‘Alas!’ replied the Duke, ‘my wife has done so much, that she has undone me.’
The history of his return to power was but a repetition of all that had gone before. Fresh plots against his authority and his life, fresh outbreaks of religious strife between Catholics and Protestants, continued undermining of his interests in England; but no public trouble could be compared with the crushing sorrow occasioned by the death of his eldest son, Lord Ossory, in the prime of life, in the zenith of his reputation. We have no space to enlarge on the merits of this noble son of a noble father; he has been immortalised in the pages of that father’s faithful friend, Lord Clarendon. Suffice it to say, that all England and Ireland sympathised with the afflicted parents. The Duchess appears never to have entirely rallied, for though her death did not occur till some years later, her health began to fail, and she went over to Bath for the benefit of the waters. In 1684, of fever and weakness, this most remarkable woman, the ‘best helpmate man ever was blessed with,’ died, at the age of sixty-nine, having married when only fourteen.
Her guardian, Lord Holland, had so far neglected her education, that she had never even learned to write, but she taught herself by copying print, which was the reason her letters were never joined together. In appearance she was tall and well made, but not a beauty; an excellent capacity for business, good sense and judgment, and, as we have said before, an undaunted spirit, which fitted her for all the vicissitudes of her eventful life. Irreproachable in her own conduct, she avoided the society of the King’s favourites, and ‘would never wait on the Duchess of Cleveland,’ who was her enemy in consequence. The Duchess of Portsmouth would take no denial, and when the Ormondes lived near Windsor would always be calling, and once she sent word she was coming to dine. The Duchess, on receiving this semi-royal intimation, despatched her granddaughters, who were staying with her, to London, and when ‘La Quérouaille’ arrived she found no one to sit with her at table, with the exception of the Duke and Duchess, and their domestic chaplain; whereas, when the Duke of York married Lady Anne Hyde, and few were found to pay her court, the Duchess of Ormonde waited on the bride, and, kneeling, kissed her hand, as to a Princess of the blood. Queen Catherine esteemed the Duchess of Ormonde highly, none the less, doubtless, for the slights she put upon ‘The Castlemaine,’ and made her a present of her own and the King’s portraits, set in large diamonds, which their Majesties had exchanged at the Royal marriage. This jewel was given by the Duke to his grandson’s wife, Lady Mary Somerset, who was compelled to sell it for subsistence at the Revolution, when her husband’s estates passed away from him.
The Duke was in England when his wife died, and was inconsolable; ‘indeed, when alone at night, he was almost distracted.’ The only solace he found was in constant work, and he hurried over to Dublin to resume his duties; in the meantime, Charles II., who had lately made him an English Duke, was besieged, as before, with applications once more to deprive his faithful servant of the Lord-Lieutenancy. For a while he stood firm, saying he had one of his kingdoms in good hands, and was resolved to keep it so; and another time, being asked by my Lord Arlington if the report were true that the Duke was to be recalled, his Majesty replied with much anger, ‘It is a damned lie!’ But no one could trust in the steadfastness of the ‘Merry Monarch.’ Ormonde’s enemy, Colonel Talbot, made a report on Irish affairs, which Charles took hold of as a plea for the Duke’s recall. Sir Robert Southwell wrote to Dublin to give him warning of the King’s decision.
‘They begin early,’ was the reply, ‘to find fault with my conduct, before I am warm in my post here, or my head recovered from the agitation of the sea.’
Charles II. died suddenly, but James lost no time in carrying out his brother’s intention; Ormonde was superseded by Lord Clarendon, the King’s father-in-law, and he had in turn to make way for Ormonde’s bitter enemy, Colonel Talbot, who, in 1687, was made Earl of Tyrconnell and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His Majesty paid the Duke the scanty compliment of asking him to remain in his post at Court, which he did, and again carried the Crown at the Coronation.
In February 1686 he went to stay a while at Cornbury, a beautifully situated forest lodge in Oxfordshire, lent him by his friend, Lord Clarendon, whence he waited on the King at Bristol; and, being afterwards laid up with gout and rheumatism at Badminton, James visited him twice in person, and condescended to request him to continue his place at Court, though unable to attend. The Duke then proceeded to Kingston Hall, a country house he had hired in Dorsetshire, where he died.
The constant society of his faithful friends, Sir Robert Southwell, and the Bishop of Worcester, who had been his domestic chaplain, cheered his last days, and he took much delight in seeing little Lord Thurles, his great-grandson, playing about the room, or in taking the child on his knee to caress him. One day, appearing more than usually downcast, he was asked the reason. ‘This is the anniversary of the saddest day of my life,’ replied the Duke,—‘the day on which I lost my beloved wife.’