The Last Boleyn(151)
Once at supper, she had forced him into a debate over who the strange visitor might be who creaked the stairs. “My Aunt Susan always insisted it was my Uncle Humphrey, since he was the one hanged at Tyburn, and everyone thought a ghost must have a violent death,” he had said.
“But what do you believe, my love,” she had prompted.
“I reason that if there is any such thing, my Mary, it is my own father,” he had admitted. “You see, this manor was his birthright and Humphrey had Stonehouse Manor nearer to Colchester before they lost that as a result of the rebellion. Then too, my father died of fever in this house and, as far as I can tell, the ghost never acts up when I am in the house. Though my mother died here giving birth to me, the ghost never came until my father died. It is almost as if,” he concluded, his eyes growing distant and his voice softer, “as if my father is unsettled when I am at court in the hands of the king, so to speak, and rests quietly when I visit, and especially now that we reside here. It is only a theory if I am to believe any of my old aunt’s tales and warnings. Perhaps the stairs just creak, for I have seen nothing of it, despite the old lady’s stories of furniture moved about and doors ajar. If it comes now at all,” he had teased, “it will surely be to see what a beautiful wife and daughter I have brought to Wivenhoe. But you had best not tell little Catherine the tale. And do not worry yourself, for it is quite a friendly ghost.”
“How can you be sure?” she had probed, still nervous about the possibility of a haunted manorhouse.
“He fears not to creak about in day as well as night. Now the best folk tellers know that no evil ghost would dare that.” She had not been certain in the end if he were teasing or not, so she had let the matter drop. It was her own haunted mind, he had said, and well, maybe he was right.
But there had been no ghosts upon their joyous arrival here to live at Wivenhoe, she recalled, and a smile lit her tired face at the memory. Staff had carried her, dirt-stained and road-weary as she was, across the threshhold shouting for his shocked staff to assemble to greet the lord who so seldom visited and his new lady they had never seen. Safe at last in the oaken and stucco arms of charming Wivenhoe, Staff, Mary, Nancy, and Stephen had laughed and hugged one another in a raucous self-welcome. The eight-member household staff had stood in troubled awe at first to hear their new mistress was sister to the Great Henry’s Queen Anne Boleyn, but soon enough they had accepted and grew to like her too.
Proudly, bursting with enthusiasm, Staff had shown her the trim and lovely manorhouse of three gabled storeys. On the ground floor a solar, dining hall and kitchen rooms including pantry, buttery, and bolting room where all the storing and sifting of flour took place. Up the carved oak staircase, the master’s bedroom and sitting room and four other, smaller bedrooms. Above, under the high-peaked rafters, the servants’ rooms and extra storage. The house lay in a huge H-shape surrounded by garden plots, orchards and this lovely pond where she sat now.
The furniture inside consisted mostly of big, carved Medieval pieces Staff promised her they would replace over the years, but Mary had loved it all instantly. So like Hever in the rich, polished patina of the oaks, maples, and cherry woods; so open to the fresh smells of the gardens, yet so warm and cozy within. And best, she loved their tall dark oak bedstead with the carved tendrils of vines and flowers twisting up the four heavy posters which supported the intricately scrolled and crested wood canopy overhead. Even now, as autumn began, she could picture the crisp winter nights to come when they would pull the beige embroidered bed curtains closed and have their own safe world away from Cromwell’s spies and the sudden summons of the king.
“Little Catherine says you would take a nap, lady,” Nancy’s voice broke into her reverie.
“Oh, yes, Nance. You gave me a start. If you would just come with me up the steep stairs and help me into bed, I would appreciate it. It is getting to be a dark day, is it not? The lord should be back soon. If it rains on the grain crop so near harvest time, he will be in a black mood.”
“Have you pains yet, lady?” Mary shook her head.
They went in through the narrow open hearth kitchen and Brennan looked up from kneading a huge wooden trencher of bread dough. Her eyes widened at the sight of Nancy helping Mary toward the hall.
“No, Brennan,” Nance answered the unspoken question. “We need not send Stephen for the village midwife yet, but just stay about in case we need boiling water.”
“She is a fine cook, Nance, but somewhat of a gossip.” Mary observed as they left the kitchen. “Jane Rochford would consider her a dangerous rival of scandal mongering if we took her to court, I warrant.”
The parlor lay silent and dim off the narrow front entry hall as they ascended the steps. Although the oak staircase was dark and gloomy since no sun streamed through windows today, the stairs were well built and never creaked under even Staff’s weight. That is one indication that the Wivenhoe ghost truly does walk here, Mary reasoned nervously.
Their bed was a tall, square one and the carved walnut cradle for the new baby stood ready at its side. Mary sat and Nancy swung her feet up. “No, no, do not cover me. It is warm enough. And if the lord comes, do not let me sleep long.”
“Yes, milady.” Nancy pulled the heavy curtains over the two diamond paned windows and turned to go.
“Nancy. I have not been too short with you lately, have I?”