Mary stood in the gallery with the long sweep of windows fronting the Thames. Her view was partly obstructed by the legs of stonemasons perched on ladders chiseling laboriously at the upper stone facings which dangled from the outside cornices. For three weeks from morning to night they had picked away at the gray stone all over the palace, whatever the weather. They were chiseling elaborate H’s and A’s entwined with Tudor roses. Some carved the falcon heads of Anne’s new badge. His Grace’s King-at-Arms had discovered an elaborate pedigree for Anne stretching back to twelfth-century England, so by necessity, George and Mary shared the proud new heritage. Anne had declared that their family name was now to be spelled and pronounced Boleyn, a French spelling and much more suited to a future queen of the realm than the plebeian “Bullen” from the rough north country of England. Mary knew her father had been rattled by the name change, though he held his tongue. Indeed, Anne had Thomas, Lord Boleyn, at her beck and call even as she did the king. He had come to see the perverse wisdom of his younger daughter’s not bedding with the Tudor stallion, as much as he had seen the wisdom of Mary’s place in the royal bed for five productive years.
Mary touched the thick window glass to see if it were cold. It seemed as mild today as it had been the last week. That was fortunate, for Anne and her ladies would take a barge upriver to Westminster to the king’s court for a banquet this evening. It could get terribly cold on the river, being rowed from His Grace’s court at Westminster or Bridewell to Whitehall, which he had so graciously given Anne for her London residence until the divorce was approved and they could live together.
It must be warm outside despite the gray of the sky, she thought again listlessly, for the workmen do not stamp the ground and snort like noisy cold horses as they do when it is biting. So much change. So much change for the Bullens to become the Boleyns in such a short time.
“My lady, I thought to find you gazing at the river somewhere along here. Does it make you feel closer to her?”
Mary lifted her head to see her maid Nancy wrapped in a woolen shawl, her nose still red from the cold that had plagued her most of the winter. “I was not pining for Catherine this once, truly, Nance, nor for Lord Stafford, though by your look I warrant that you do not believe me. I will see them both tonight. I do miss Catherine terribly, but she is better off to be with the Duke and Duchess’s Margaret in the lovely royal nursery with a fine tutor. What could I ever give her here when I cannot even afford to clothe myself well? The child can easily, and with pride, wear the Lady Margaret’s handed-down dresses, but I can hardly inherit my slender sister’s cast-off gowns even if they are in the tens of tens.” She fell into step beside Nancy and they strolled toward the wing where Mary had a chamber and sitting room, within call of Anne’s spacious suite.
“Maybe Lord Stafford will bring the sweet lass for a visit again the way he has afore,” Nancy encouraged.
“Do not worry about me, Nance. I am resigned to it, really I am. I only regret that I cannot afford to keep you well clothed either. Thank God Stephen was so willing to go into service with Lord Stafford. But I do fear your sniffles and colds will turn to the blains if we do not care for you better.” Mary reached over to pull the girl’s shawl more tightly around her thin shoulders.
“Do you miss Stephen too, Nance?” Mary teased lightly, knowing the girl much favored the lad.
“Yes, acourse, lady. But we had best be gettin’ on the subject of what you shall be wearin’ tonight.”
“It hardly matters, I think. All my gowns are out of style.”
“Lady Rochford!”
Mary turned in the hall in the direction of her name. It was so difficult to become accustomed to her new title.
“Lady Rochford, you have a visitor who craves an audience.” The messenger was one of Anne’s fine new servants, and Mary was not even certain of his name.
“Who is the visitor, sir?”
“’Tis a Madam Carey, my lady. She is a holy lady and all in gray.”
“Will’s sister Eleanor,” she said aloud. Nance and the messenger both turned to stare at her troubled face. “I will see the lady now. Lead the I way, if you please.”
Eleanor rose as Mary entered the small room. They embraced stiffly and backed several paces apart.
“Sit, please, Eleanor. I am surprised to see you.”
“I must call you Lady Rochford now, I understand,” came Eleanor’s slow voice. “The king has elevated your entire family again; your father to the Earldom of Wiltshire and Lord Privy Seal and your sister, they say, is the Marquise of Pembroke with greatest status in the realm. The Bullens are still very fortunate and—blessed.”
I see your informants have not told you that we are now the Boleyns, Mary thought, but she said only, “Please sit, sister. It is kind of you to stop to see me on your way.”
“I came specifically to see you, Lady Rochford. Perhaps you never thought to see me again after poor Will died, but now that all the lands are lost to the family, there is something I would ask of you.”
“So you know of the loss of my son’s inheritance, too. The lands are still in the family in a way, for His Grace gave most of them to my brother and sister after Will died. But the manor at Plashy went to Thomas Cromwell, a new advisor of the king. And the wardship of my son...” Her voice trembled but she looked squarely into Eleanor Carey’s clear gray eyes, “went to my sister until the boy reaches his majority. So I am sorry, Eleanor, but if you wish funds, you must believe me that I am quite without means, quite destitute.”
“I never would have believed it. But your family, your father—do they not support you? Then your influence with the king is gone? Will had known that would happen someday, you know. If he were here today, he could make his way quite alone in His Majesty’s good graces.”