The Last Boleyn(150)

“Oh, I am so glad!” Nancy hugged Mary and turned back to Staff. “Are you in disgrace and banished then?”

“More or less,” Mary answered, yanking open the top drawer of her wardrobe. “Come on, Nance. We will talk on the way.”

“You see, lass,” Staff teased as he felt the tremendous impact of their sudden freedom assail his brain, “Stephen is going, too, and with the tight accommodations at Wivenhoe manorhouse, your lady and I would be most grateful if you and he could see fit to share a room. And, though I fear your betters have not set you a very good example, we would prefer that you wed with him first, if the two of you would do us so kind a favor.”

Nancy’s face went from incredulous, to stunned, to joyous, to embarrassed.

“Staff, did you have to tell her that surprise now? You are just like a little boy who cannot wait for dinner,” Mary scolded. “Nancy, you must keep packing or we will end up in a dungeon somewhere and have to rescind the suggestion.” She smiled broadly at Staff as the girl bent to her packing and stuffing with a vengeance.

Within an hour the Wivenhoe party clattered away from Whitehall along the river and soon turned eastward with the sun warm on their backs. Thomas Boleyn had not appeared to scold or stop them as Mary had feared he would. She was glad not to see him, but somehow it only said he did not care. She thought again of brave and loving Meg Roper with her father’s head in her lap as they left The Tower behind and cantered through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Staff’s great stallion, Sanctuary, snorted as though he already scented the far distant Wivenhoe, and Eden kept well abreast of the huge horse as they rode side-by-side toward Colchester.





CHAPTER THIRTY


October 22, 1534


Wivenhoe Manor

It had been the most marvelous summer Mary could remember. Now the trees and shrubs and flowers of Wivenhoe flaunted their riot of autumn colors, and she wondered how long the sequestered beauty would dare to last in her life. She was heavy with child, but the joy she felt with her husband and daughter about her in their new home made her almost forget the agonies of her heart. Despite the peace of Wivenhoe, her thoughts went often to London and she prayed that her sister would find peace and love and bear her husband an heir. And too, she prayed that Anne would forgive her this secret marriage and the child—forgive her, as Will Carey had not, for the love she bore Staff. When her prayers turned to her father, no words would come—only rattled hopes and jagged emotions.

“Do you really think today will be the day, mother?” nine-year-old Catherine asked for the third time in the last hour. “It is so exciting, and you promised I could help care for him after he is born.” The girl’s eyes darted up from the sampler she was stitching and she smiled.

“Yes, my dear, you will be a tremendous help. But remember, the babe may well be a little sister.”

“Somehow, mother, somehow I just feel it is a boy. We never see Harry much, so it will take his place.”

“One child never really takes the place of another in a parent’s love, Catherine. You will understand that someday.” Mary tried to sit erect on the stone bench in the herb garden, but her back ached so it really did no good. She would have to lie down or get Staff or Nancy to rub it. It worried her that she felt so tired when she was surely on the threshold of labor, where she would need all her strength. It had been nine years since she had delivered a child.

“But if the queen bears the king a son, it will surely replace my cousin Elizabeth in their love, mother,” Catherine was arguing. “Then she will be most sad when she grows up that her father will love her not. Brennan told me...”

“You must not listen to Brennan so much, my love,” Mary chided gently, trying to keep the scolding tone from her voice. “Brennan is only the cook in a small country manor and knows nothing of London and the court. Besides, Elizabeth will grow up to be a fine princess of the realm at the very least. You must keep her spirits up and be a friend to her should the queen send for you to live in the princess’s company as she has promised she would.”

“Maybe the queen is so busy that she forgot, mother. I have been here a whole two months since I left grandmother at Hever.”

“Well, let’s not speak of that now, sweet. Run and fetch Nancy for me. Staff is out making some sort of bargain with his threshers in the grain fields and he will be back soon. I may take a little nap.”

“But it is not your time, is it?”

“No, my lass. Now go fetch Nancy.”

Catherine scurried off, her flying feet on the gravel path making a rapid rhythmic crunching. She ran behind the stone fence and Mary could see only the top golden curls of her head bobbing along before she disappeared into the kitchen entry. The ivy-draped walls of the house reflected in the fishpond and the stark contrast of whitewashed walls and dark patterned wood made an image of a second Wivenhoe in its calm watery surface. Mary treasured Wivenhoe, as she always had Hever, for the calm and peace it gave. Then, too, there were gentle water lilies floating endlessly on this tiny pond as they had at The Golden Gull in Banstead. Even the manor’s ghost disturbed them not, though Mary had heard the stairboards creak at night and sensed unrest. Staff told her it was her own unrest and that the spirit visits had never yet occurred when he had been in the house. It was only the senile ravings of his old maiden aunt, he said. But Mary thought otherwise.