Mary was inconsolable. “He was only thirty-two!” she wailed. “What will I do now? Where will I go?”
Anne suspected that Mary’s grief was more for herself and the lost prospect of a brilliant future than for the man she had married. She wondered if her sister had truly loved Will. They had got on well—it was as much as could be said for many marriages. She felt deeply saddened herself, for she had liked her brother-in-law.
A friend of Will’s wrote to Mary. He had been with her husband at the end, and recounted how, at the last, Will had begged Cardinal Wolsey to look with favor on his sister, Dame Eleanor. Never mind Wolsey! Anne thought. I will see that his wish is honored.
The weeks of her convalescence passed, and soon she was her old self again. Yet still she lingered at Hever, for it was high summer, the sweat was still raging, and the King was always on the move—and no doubt Katherine was doing her best to make him forget about a divorce. But Anne knew from his loving letters that that would never happen.
It was soon clear that Will’s death had left Mary destitute and in debt. The lands granted to him by the King had passed to Will’s son, Henry, a stolid, defiant three-year-old, who was forever rampaging around the castle on his hobby horse, wielding a wooden sword, much to his grandfather’s annoyance. William’s offices, with their income, had reverted to the King.
“I have nowhere to live!” Mary wept. “Will’s lodging at court has been assigned to someone else. Maybe,” she looked hopefully at Father, sniffing loudly, “I could remain here.”
“No,” he said. “Your place is with your husband’s family. I gave Will a handsome enough dowry.”
“But I have nothing left from my marriage settlement, and Will died intestate. You know that, Father!”
But he was implacable, and all the more testy because of his recent illness. “My responsibility toward you, daughter, ended when I gave you to William Carey! You can’t stay here. His parents should support you, and I suggest that you write to them without delay and make arrangements to travel down to—where is it?—Wiltshire.”
Mary rocked in misery. “But I don’t want to live in Wiltshire—and I hardly know them!”
Anne put an arm around her. “Father, you are being rather harsh,” she reproved. “Don’t you think so, Mother?”
Mother looked up from her sewing. “Your father is right,” she muttered. “Mary cannot stay here.” Anne was surprised at her reaction. It seemed that she was as unsympathetic as Father.
“Do as you’re told, Mary, and write that letter,” Father barked.
Mary stumbled off, sobbing, to her chamber. It struck Anne that Father’s affection for his children lasted only as long as they were useful to him. Mary was poor and nearing thirty. She would find it hard to secure a worthy husband, and could end up being at Father’s charge for good. But however annoying and pathetic Mary could be, she was his daughter. And with that thought, Anne rose and hurried up to her chamber to write to Henry.
—
Two days later there arrived at Hever a royal messenger with a great haunch of venison, a gift from the King. There was a letter too.
“The cause of my writing at this time, good sweetheart,” Anne read, “is to ask after your good health and prosperity, praying God, if it be His pleasure, to bring us together soon, for I promise you I long for it. And seeing my darling is absent, I am sending you some flesh, representing my name—hart’s flesh for Henry—anticipating that soon, God willing, you will enjoy some of mine, which I would were now.” Anne shook her head, smiling at his boldness. And then she was filled with gratitude toward him, because he had instructed his secretary to write to Father informing him of his opinion of his treatment of Mary. “For surely,” Henry had written, “it cannot stand with his honor, but that he must take in his natural daughter in her extreme necessity. No more to you at this time, my own darling, although I wish we were together of an evening. With the hand of yours, H.R.”
When he read the secretary’s letter, Father’s face turned a dangerous shade of red, and he glared at Anne, it being obvious who was behind this. But he knew himself bested. With very poor grace, he told Mary that he had reconsidered and, out of pity, would let her stay at Hever. Mary flung her arms around him and thanked him profusely, but he was cold, pushing her away, and Anne began to realize that Mary might have done better with the Careys, for it would be like a penance living in a house where she was not welcome.
Again Anne wrote to Henry, explaining Mary’s unhappy situation. By return, he agreed to pay Mary the substantial annuity of ￡100 that had formerly been paid to Will Carey.
Mary’s face, when she heard, was transformed. No longer was she the grieving widow: she was a woman of means.
She rounded on her parents, and even on Anne. “You all said I came out of it with nothing! That I let the King use me and asked for nothing in return! But he has not forgotten me! He had no obligation to assign that allowance to me. But he remembers that he has a daughter. This is for her—and for me, and little Harry. It will afford us a comfortable income, and will spare us from living here in bondage!”
“It’s thanks to me that you have that allowance,” Anne pointed out, hurt.
“You live here only because the King commands it!” Father snarled. “Being at charge for you was not my chief objection to your staying. Do you not realize that you are a living reminder of something this family would prefer to forget? That there are many out to destroy your sister, looking for ways to do so, and if they got one hint that you had bedded with the King, or one glimpse of the child that is him to the life, they would use it against her. Having you out of sight in Wiltshire would have been the best solution.” He turned to Anne. “And you, my fine lady, would have done better not to have meddled.”
“I did what I thought was right,” Anne countered. “And so did His Grace! Will you question his wisdom?”
Father threw her a look that told her exactly what he thought of His Grace’s wisdom, but he said no more, and presently life at Hever returned to a semblance of normality. That was disrupted when the King informed Anne that he had granted her the wardship of young Henry Carey.
“But he is my son!” Mary shouted. “Isn’t the King enough for you?”
“I did not ask for this!” Anne cried.
“Quiet, both of you!” Father growled. “Mary, you ought to know that when the heir to landed estates is left fatherless, he becomes a ward of the King, and the King can grant that wardship to anyone he pleases. In this case His Grace has made a wise choice, for Anne is high in favor and can secure great advantages for the boy.”