The Last Boleyn(139)
She inhaled a deep breath laden with the aromas of moist spring earth and sat on the marble bench in the deserted rose garden near their hidden bower where they often met during the afternoons when they could slip away. Married more than a year, she mused, the smile on her lips again. If only the Boleyn fortunes had not been so shaky lately and Anne so hysterical and distraught, they would have told them long ago.
Mary glanced up at the wing of the nursery which directly overlooked these gardens. The six-month-old Princess Elizabeth no doubt slept or played beyond those windows—the child who was to have been the prince Anne and the king’s astrologers had promised him. It was a white-faced, red-haired child whose christening at Greenwich the king refused to attend. The Boleyns had huddled behind Archbishop Cranmer as he blessed their best hope to hold the crown. And worst of all, Anne had newly miscarried of a pregnancy. Now the Boleyns were in fear and disarray and even father showed desperation in his darting eyes. This was no time for them to be told of a new marriage or pregnancy of their black sheep daughter Mary. But if only the king would cease to look elsewhere as he had lately with various mistresses and would bed with the queen, Anne could conceive again. Then they would surely tell them, and then...
There were quick footsteps on the gravel path, and she ducked back into their little bower. The interior was not so hidden with its leaves and flowers yet to come, but the vines and briars were fairly thick. Staff was here, his head and shoulders blocking out the garden beyond.
“Stephen tells me his Nancy says you wanted to see me, sweetheart. Is anything amiss?” He took a step toward her and his hands went to her waist.
“Not amiss, love, but I wanted to tell you something. Did you have difficulty getting away?”
“No. His Grace is with a messenger from his sister in Suffolk, and Cromwell is closeted with your father. Cromwell has taken to giving me one raised eyebrow lately and wishing me a good night’s sleep, so I assume he knows or suspects how much I see you.”
“But he could not know we are wed!”
“Sometimes I do not know what the man knows or thinks. But I do sense that he is amazingly protective of you, for His Grace obviously knows nothing of us. It seems to have dropped from the king’s realm of interest what I do, although he always wants me about on the sporting field. At least he has given up on that foolish Dorsey match for me.” He smiled rakishly and took a step deeper into the bower. “I do not fancy two wives to please.”
She pushed out her lower lip in an intentional pout. “I am starting to believe you do not deserve to hear what I have to tell you at all.”
“No? It is important then? Tell me!” He gave her waist a little squeeze.
“Well, my lord, it is only that we are going to have to weather the storm sometime in the near future and tell them we are wed.”
“Your sister would go right through the roof, sweet, and His Grace has been continually on edge since he signed his friend Sir Thomas More’s bill of execution.” His face changed suddenly and his eyes widened. “Why did you say we must tell them in the near future, love? What are you telling me?”
She smiled up at him and her arms went around his neck. “My dear Lord Stafford, you have always known everything about me without my having to tell you. Have you so changed? Has marriage so dulled your senses?”
He stared down incredulous. “Mary!” He picked her up and tried to spin them, but her feet and skirts caught in the wooden trellis and the briars pulled at their clothes.
“Put me down, Staff! You cannot do that in here!” They both collapsed against each other weak with laughter.
He seized her hands in a powerful grip against his red velvet chest. “You are with child, my love?”
She nodded wide-eyed, drinking in his wordless joy.
“How long? Did you just discover it?”
“I did not just discover it, my lord, but now I am certain. In late September or early October I would judge. An heir for Wivenhoe, my love.”
“Yes, an heir for Wivenhoe and for freedom away from court and all their damned intrigues. But, lass, unlike some, I will be happy with a beautiful daughter that has her mother’s eyes.” He bent and kissed her gently as though he were suddenly afraid she were fragile.
“I will not break, you know, Staff, not even when I begin to swell. I would not want you to think that you have to...”
“Have no fear of that, my sweetheart.” He bent to kiss her again, but raised his head and listened. “Now who the deuce is shouting like that at such a momentous time? I am so happy for our wonderful news, Mary.”
“Did you think it would never happen? Thirty years of age is hardly past childbearing years, you know.” She gave him a playful poke in his midsection and he grinned like a small boy. Then she heard it too, a call from far away in the gardens. Nancy’s voice calling her name?
“Oh no, not a summons to Anne’s chamber. I cannot bear her ranting and raving, Staff. She is utterly beside herself. It is worse than that week in France when you all rode out with Francois and she stormed and screamed for five days. I know she is desperate and frightened, but any words of comfort she just rips to shreds.”
“Yes, it is Nancy, sweet, and Lady Wingfield. Go on now, I may be late tonight, but I will wake you if you are asleep, and we will properly celebrate our good news then.” He kissed her quickly and disappeared in the direction of the river opposite from Nancy’s approach. She suddenly wished she had waited to tell him when they were really alone with no interruptions upon their joy. But, then, this place had its own beautiful memories, and she had always planned to tell him here when it happened.