The Last Boleyn(152)
“No, Lady Mary. But if you were, I would understand with the babe comin’ and all.”
“And all. Yes, it is more than just the babe, Nance. I so often think of the queen unhappy and far away. It seems terribly unfair that I am here with Staff and things are so peaceful. You and Stephen are happy, I know. I can see it.”
“I have never been so happy, lady. Perhaps I shall bear my Stephen a son in God’s good time. I told him to stay close today and so did the lord. He can go for the midwife any time, lady.”
“Yes, Nance. Thank you. Go on now and get me up for supper if I fall asleep.” Nancy closed the door to the room quietly.
The manorhouse was very silent. Staff’s groom, Patrick, had probably taken Catherine for her afternoon ride as he did when Staff was looking to manor business or spending the afternoon with Mary. And Brennan kneaded bread and Mary needed Staff and Anne needed a child. She got so tired some afternoons that she almost dozed sitting up, and her waking thoughts merged into her inner voices. It was like that now, floating on the soft mattress where they had so joyfully made love before her size and bulk had made it impossible lately. Palaces and castles be damned, I will live and die at Wivenhoe, she was thinking. The room swam in dim light and sleep would come in an instant here. Maybe she was asleep already, but then she would not know the babe kicked at her from within. It had dropped so much lower now, that it must come soon. An heir for Wivenhoe to take the place of the rebel Humphrey who was stolen from sanctuary and hanged, or perhaps to make up for Staff’s father’s early death at Wivenhoe, here in this room.
The sharp creak scratched at her drifting mind and her eyes shot open. “Nance!” she heard herself say, and her heart quickened as though it knew something her mind could not. The door to the room stood ajar. But had not Nancy closed it? A floor board moaned near the bed. She sat bolt upright. She felt icy cold, but the day was warm, even sultry, and no breeze stirred through the closed curtains.
“No,” she said aloud and heavily moved herself toward the far side of the bed and swung her feet down. She stood unsteadily and paced slowly in a wide arc around the room, staying near the wall. She dared not look back as her hand touched the door handle. It was very warm to the touch and she pulled back. She heard her sharp intake of breath in the silence, and pulled the heavy door open farther by its wooden edge. In the hall she leaned on the carved banister at the top of the stairs and opened her mouth to call for Nancy or Staff or anyone. The staircase stretched downward, calmly deserted. Then it happened. She distinctly felt a warm touch between her shoulder blades and she meant to scream. But it was gone instantly, and she spun wide-eyed against the wall. There was nothing, nothing, but the blur in her own eyes and that was tears.
Fear left her then. Why had she meant to shout to those working below? She felt calm and warm, for the touch had been gentle and the feeling had been love. “It is Staff’s father,” she whispered or thought. He had only wanted to see her and touch her, for she loved his son and maybe he knew that a Tudor king had ruined her life, too. She would tell Staff later, though he might think it was all in her worried mind again. Perhaps she had dreamed it in her exhaustion. No one would ever believe the fantasy that a dead father could be warmer than the reality of a living one.
“Lady, are you all right? Why are you standin’ here? Your face looks like...well, I was comin’ to tell you your brother has ridden in.”
Mary stood stone-still as her wandering mind tried to grasp Nancy’s words. “George here? With what news or orders, I wonder. Is Lord Stafford back? I must comb my hair.” She went back into the bedroom with Nancy trailing behind. The door latch no longer felt unusually warm, if indeed it had ever been warm at all. The bed was as she had left it and the covers clearly showed where she had scooted across Staff’s side to get up. Nancy seemed not to notice as she fixed the heavy curls of her mistress’s hair.
George’s face lit in a broad smile when he saw her and he did not hide his surprise at her changed appearance. “I had forgotten how you bloom when you are with child, Mary,” he teased. “It was not since you were pregnant with little Catherine at court that I saw you like this. It becomes you so. And I never saw you in your first pregnancy with Harry at Hever.”
Mary warmly kissed George’s cheek. “Does it seem to you I spend a great deal of my life in exile from the court for some indiscretion or the other, George? But I have never been happier.” She motioned him to a chair in the parlor and they sat close together. “Perhaps you had best not report that I am so content here. Tell father, for instance, I have never been more wretched and maybe he will leave me alone.”
“You are still bitter, Mary, though I do not blame you. You have never learned to just accept the inevitable the way I have, nor do you ever attack him as Anne does.”
“Have you always accepted the inevitable, brother?”
“Ever since I had to marry Jane and I saw that the fact I wanted Margot Wyatt more than anything was nothing to him. Yes, Mary. Since then I have taken my pleasures out of sight of them all and be damned to them. Except for mother and Anne, of course.”
“Are you telling me there has been someone else to fill the void Jane could never fill in your life?” she prodded, intrigued.
“Not really someone like Staff is to you, Mary. Several someones over the years, you might say. There is a certain woman living at Beaulieu now, and she is content to await the few days I can seize to spend there. Anne knows, of course, but I warrant father and Cromwell have missed this one.” He grinned like a small boy who has gotten away with stealing chickens from the farmer. “Beyond that, I am much busy on king’s business. Speaking of that, I understand you correspond with Master Cromwell.”