Mary felt exhausted after the dinner, dancing, and the elaborate charades. Cromwell did not ask her to dance and seemed content the rest of the evening to sit back and keep a steady eye on her as she danced with Norris, Weston, her brother and even Rene de Brosse. She considered trusting George with the note for Staff, but he raved incessantly about the fabulous job Anne had done with all the plans, and she was afraid. Then Francois claimed her before them all, and she dared not refuse the dance. Besides, she had not seen Staff since the lengthy dinner had been completed. She had so hoped he would get to her in the dancing as he had so often done. She wondered desperately if they had dared to lock him away to be certain their plans were not foiled. Her mind skimmed numerous escapes and discarded them as impossible. Her best defense, if it came down to facing either Francois or Cromwell in some awkward situation, would be her simple refusal. She must hold to that.
The pantomimes of mythological subjects were riotous and even the crafty Cromwell laughed a bit. Anne played the damsel in distress to King Henry’s rescuing knight, and Mary played Venus emerging from the sea made by other nymphs flapping blue and golden bedsheets before her like the rolling waves of the ocean. Francois and Henry re-enacted their spectacular meeting on The Field of the Cloth of Gold of twelve years ago, but some half-drunk Frenchman asked for a replay of the fated wrestling match where the French king threw his dear friend Henry, and Anne suddenly stood to end those revels. To Mary’s utter relief, her father took her arm and Cromwell bowed to them both and disappeared in the noisy crowd.
“How dare you set him on me!” she began the minute they were out of the press of people.
“Calm down, Mary. You are getting as nervous as Anne used to be. Let him have his little rewards for serving the Boleyns. He is a good ally to have. Any fond dreams he may have about you will amount to nothing. Be nice to him. I hardly gave him permission to bed with you, so do not look so outraged.”
“Hardly gave him permission!” She was so beside herself, she sputtered her words. “Get away from me. I am going to my room to spend the night alone. If you even entertained the slightest thought of asking me to visit the chambers of Francois du Roi, you can go to hell, and take Cromwell with you.” She spun away and ran for the safety of her room, gathering her full skirts as she went. To her profound dismay, couples were strolling the branching halls of the old castle, talking low and laughing, stopping in the dimness between wall sconces to kiss and nuzzle.
She yanked open the door to her room and scanned the small chamber quickly before she entered. The hearth fire had been lit, and fresh wine and fruit in a gleaming silver bowl sat on the small polished table. How desperately she wished she would find Staff sitting on her bed with his rakish grin, but she knew deep inside they had sent him somewhere. She shot the lock on her door and leaned against it. Whatever messengers they sent to ask her to go to Francois, even if it be the greedy-eyed Cromwell or Wolsey’s ghost in its winding sheet, she would refuse.
She pulled her gown off her shoulders and breasts and shrugged out of it. She and two other ladies shared a maid, but she would not need her services. She would be deep in her bed before the girl came to help her undress. She twisted the gown around her waist so she could see the laces and untie them herself. She stepped out of the masses of brocades and satins and layers of petticoats and wrapped herself in her black satin bedrobe, bought with father’s money, unfortunately. From now on, she would go naked and starve first.
She downed some wine and was amazed to find it was as fine as what she had been drinking at the feast. How unlike the wine and ale that had been left in her chambers the last week while the men were away. Tomorrow she would find Staff early and tell him everything. She would also make him believe that not only did she fervently wish to marry him as he had asked, for she had told him that clearly enough before, but that she would wed with him as soon as possible.
She poured more wine but slopped a considerable amount on the table when her hand jerked at the knock on the door. She held her breath, but she could hear her heart beat in the quiet above the low crackle of the fire. She pulled the black silk tighter around her.
“It is I, Mary, Jane. Will you not open the door?”
Then Jane was not with Rene de Brosse, Mary thought jubilantly. Could she trust Jane with the note to Staff? She and Anne had never gotten on, especially lately, so perhaps...
“Mary, I know you are in there.”
Mary shot the bolt back and opened the door. Jane Rochford stood there, indeed, but the velvet arm of Francois du Roi was draped over her half-bare shoulders. Mary’s eyes grew wide and she almost slammed the door in their smiling faces.
“See, Mary, I have brought you a wonderful present.”
“Merci, merci beaucoup, cherie,” Francois said in Jane’s ear and bent to kiss the white skin of her shoulder. She giggled. Francois’s hand went to the open edge of Mary’s door. “I came to reminisce about old times, golden Marie,” he said with a wink. “Be gone, be gone, madame charmante,” he ordered the starry-eyed Jane and slowly pushed Mary’s door back toward her as she stood like a statue.
“May we not recall old times tomorrow, Your Grace?” Mary heard herself say smoothly, and she fought to force a smile to her lips. “It is late and I am rather tired.” She was aware that Jane had halted but a few yards away in the dim corridor. If only there were someone else about to call to.