The Last Boleyn(92)
“Please, Will, try...”
“I am trying, madam. But he took Stafford, did he not? He took six of the twelve Gentlemen Ushers, our dear Staff included. The king is unwise to favor him because he is a fine sportsman and it amuses him to have someone who will challenge him, stand up to him at tennis or butts, and tell him the truth.”
He shrugged her hand off his shoulder and rose to face her across the tall-backed chair. “When I heard that His Grace had said he would take Staff, I told myself that it is because Staff is dependent on him and has no country seat to flee to, as do others. But Stafford told me he inherited a farm and manor at Wivenhoe near Colchester from a great aunt while we were rotting away at Plashy last year. It is that terrible little place with the ghosts, I think. So you see, he has a place to go and one not so far at that.” He squinted to see her clearly even though she stood so close. The hour was still early, but he had managed to work himself into a heavy sweat. “Did you know that Stafford has lands now, Mary?”
She sat in the narrow windowseat and leaned against the protruding wooden sill. “He told me.”
“Yes, he would have. How foolish of me to ask.”
“The king knows we have Plashy to go to, or even farther into the country to the parklands if we really thought to flee London by a good distance. And, Will, everyone knows that Wolsey built Hampton here on this stretch of river because the air is so healthy and the water supply...”
“Is that why four died here of the sweat last July? Everyone knows that well enough. Oh, you have no worries, I realize. Little Catherine is safe at Hever with your mother and Anne, Stafford is off at Eltham, though I am certain you will miss his company, and you—well, the Bullens live charmed lives anyway. That is rather obvious!”
She sighed and her eyes stung with tears which did not fall. Yes, she missed Catherine, but she was old enough to visit her grandmother at Hever. She and Anne had always treasured their visits to Rochford Hall in Essex. But she was deathly lonely without Staff, their talks, their joy, their lovemaking far into the long nights whenever they could steal time together.
“I will not flee to Plashy, Mary. It would be like being in wretched exile again, and I will never admit defeat by going back there. Plashy came from my clever marriage to a Bullen. I admit that. But our lives are here now. When the Carey name is restored, I shall have other fine lands on which to build a manor. Someday the manor at Durham may be mine again. It was never this damned hot at Durham!”
“Times change. People change, Will. Perhaps we can never go back to what was.” She lifted her gaze to the distant gardens greatly gone to riot in the heat and not well tended by the unsupervised gardeners during these dangerous times. It reminded her of the wild gardens at the north edge of Hever across the stone wall where the flowers bloomed totally free and uncut.
“Anyhow, we are not going to Plashy and we are not going to Hever to live off your father’s funds and be near that scheming sister of yours. Little Catherine can visit, but we are not going and that is final. I have been thinking, however, we can visit Eleanor at Wilton if only for several weeks. We would be within close call should they return here unexpected and, besides, I need to talk to Eleanor. She understands.”
Mary bit her lip to keep from a sharp retort. Eleanor, Eleanor. If only there was no such thing as incest between a brother and sister, Will could marry his beloved Eleanor. Perhaps, when the Careys earned their way back, they could ask for a royal or papal dispensation and marry each other. Then she would be free to go off with Staff. How desperately she wished for it!
“I do not plan to go off to Wilton, so if you must go, I shall remain here,” she said when she could trust her voice.
“I decide where we go or do not go, madam!”
“I am not going, Will. Go if you must.”
“You would like that. You would like to have me away. Perhaps you could ride alone to Eltham then, alone and unencumbered, to your dear father. Maybe the king would be glad to see his golden Mary, you are hoping, not to mention Stafford. Staff would be there waiting, Mary.”
“Leave me be, Will! I am sick, sick to death of your bitter hatred. I did not choose this marriage! I am not the one who chose to desert our bed at Plashy. I did not even choose to be born a Bullen, but I am. Please, please, leave me alone!”
“I suppose you did not choose to love Stafford either, Mary, to light up like a torch when you see him, to laugh at his jibes, to smile at him across the room.” He put his hand to the door latch and hesitated.
She stood and the morning sun from the window behind her made her mussed blonde hair appear to have a strange halo around it. “No, my lord. God forgive me, I never chose that. It just happened.” She faced him squarely across the room, her chin held high. There was a strained silence. Still he hesitated at the door.
“Then God forgive you, Mary, but the Careys never shall.” He went without looking back, but he did not slam the door as she had expected. It stood ajar and the dim hall was all she could see beyond.
The morning wore on and she did not stir from the sequestered room. The brick walls kept the heat out until late in the afternoon even though the window faced south. If Will had not been in such a heated rage, he would have realized it was cool here and not fume so about the heat of the day. She and Nancy sat talking and she embroidered while the girl darned the silken stockings she could no longer afford to give away when tiny holes appeared in the heels. They ate some fruit for lunch and drank a bit of tepid malmsey. The afternoon stretched on peacefully, and she did not think anything of Will’s long absence until his man, Stephen, came looking for him.