Of One Heart

Epilogue


Thou walkest with me when I walk;

When to my bed for rest I go, I find thee there

And everywhere;

Not youngest thought in me doth grow,

No, not one word I cast to talk.

But, unuttered, thou dost know.

—Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke

1561-1621

~

Gloucestershire, England

October 10, 1533



Micheline, accompanied by Percy the spaniel, came over the brow of the hill and gazed down over the curving slope. The meadow grasses were still covered with daisies, wild marjoram, and pink clover. There had been a frost just three nights before, though, and the trees were turning yellow, crimson, and russet.

Winter would soon be upon the Cotswolds. It was a time to savor each fine day, like this one. The sky was a clear, vivid blue, the air was crisp, and in the vale below, Andrew and Hampstead were one as they galloped and then sailed over a wall of golden limestone. Cicely, who was riding Primrose, appeared to challenge her brother to a contest, though there was never any real question as to which horse would win. They raced across the valley, jumping four successive walls, then retraced the course.

Smiling, Micheline settled down amid the wildflowers to watch. For an instant she was reminded of herself and Bernard, in the days when they galloped in unspoken competition through the woods of Angouleme. Her present was so full that she spared little time for thoughts of the past, but now Micheline remembered Aimée telling her that one day she would remember Bernard with fondness. At last she was able to separate the good memories from the bad. Bernard had not been a villain—only immature and misguided. And for a time he had loved her, and she had loved him. Who could say what would have become of Micheline if Bernard had not helped her bridge the gulf from adolescence to womanhood?

With a bittersweet sigh she looked down at the letter in her hands, rereading it. She was engrossed in the ending when Sandhurst called her name.

Looking up, she saw him leading Hampstead up the hill. Her heart contracted in a familiar way at the sight of his strong rider's body, clad today in slate-gray velvet, and his hair ruffling back from his handsome face in the breeze. Reaching his wife, Sandhurst gave Hampstead a light slap to send him back to the stables, Percy frolicking behind, then dropped down into the fragrant grass.

"My God, you're beautiful," he told her softly.

Micheline wore a simple low-necked gown of yellow velvet, cut high at the waist to drape over her ripening belly. The sun brushed her loose brandy-hued curls with fire, and her eyes shone as she smiled.

"So are you, my lord."

"Beautiful?" He frowned in mock consternation. "That's an opinion best kept in the family. Speaking of which—how fares my offspring?"

"Very well!" Micheline lay back in Sandhurst's embrace, watching as his hands curved expectantly over her belly, waiting. When the baby kicked, he flashed a grin.

"Three more months! It seems a lifetime!"

"Anticipation is half the fun," she replied, kissing the hard line of his jaw, then held up the parchment. "We've had a letter from Thomas and Aimée. She gave birth to their son last month!"

"So they had a boy. He's healthy?"

"Yes. And you know they lost a son before, their first child, so this baby is especially precious. They named him Etienne."

"Stephen," he translated absently. "Very nice."

Gazing up at his profile, she sighed a little. "Will you be disappointed if this child is a girl?"

"You know better. As long as it's either a girl or a boy, I'll be content." When Micheline didn't laugh at that, Sandhurst watched her for a moment. "You're not married to King Henry, you know. Just because he thinks that Anne failed him by presenting him with a baby girl last month—"

"Odious man. I could almost smell the queen's despair when we saw her at Greenwich after Elizabeth was born. The way the king was behaving, as if the birth of a lovely, healthy child could be cause for disappointment!"

Andrew continued to watch Micheline as she gazed out over the hills. "What of you? Has this letter from France made you homesick?"

"My home is here," she returned quietly.

"Perhaps we might visit the St. Briacs next year. Would you like that?"

A dazzling smile lit her face. "That's a wonderful idea! Could we take the baby? And Cicely?"

"I don't see why not."

Micheline buried her face against his warm neck. "Oh, Andrew, how I love you."

He took her back with him to lie in a bed of daisies. "And I love you, Michelle." He smiled into her iris-blue eyes. "As always..."

"...we're of one mind!" She laughed.

"And one heart."

The End