“No,” she said aloud and heavily moved herself toward the far side of the bed and swung her feet down. She stood unsteadily and paced slowly in a wide arc around the room, staying near the wall. She dared not look back as her hand touched the door handle. It was very warm to the touch and she pulled back. She heard her sharp intake of breath in the silence, and pulled the heavy door open farther by its wooden edge. In the hall she leaned on the carved banister at the top of the stairs and opened her mouth to call for Nancy or Staff or anyone. The staircase stretched downward, calmly deserted. Then it happened. She distinctly felt a warm touch between her shoulder blades and she meant to scream. But it was gone instantly, and she spun wide-eyed against the wall. There was nothing, nothing, but the blur in her own eyes and that was tears.
Fear left her then. Why had she meant to shout to those working below? She felt calm and warm, for the touch had been gentle and the feeling had been love. “It is Staff’s father,” she whispered or thought. He had only wanted to see her and touch her, for she loved his son and maybe he knew that a Tudor king had ruined her life, too. She would tell Staff later, though he might think it was all in her worried mind again. Perhaps she had dreamed it in her exhaustion. No one would ever believe the fantasy that a dead father could be warmer than the reality of a living one.
“Lady, are you all right? Why are you standin’ here? Your face looks like...well, I was comin’ to tell you your brother has ridden in.”
Mary stood stone-still as her wandering mind tried to grasp Nancy’s words. “George here? With what news or orders, I wonder. Is Lord Stafford back? I must comb my hair.” She went back into the bedroom with Nancy trailing behind. The door latch no longer felt unusually warm, if indeed it had ever been warm at all. The bed was as she had left it and the covers clearly showed where she had scooted across Staff’s side to get up. Nancy seemed not to notice as she fixed the heavy curls of her mistress’s hair.
George’s face lit in a broad smile when he saw her and he did not hide his surprise at her changed appearance. “I had forgotten how you bloom when you are with child, Mary,” he teased. “It was not since you were pregnant with little Catherine at court that I saw you like this. It becomes you so. And I never saw you in your first pregnancy with Harry at Hever.”
Mary warmly kissed George’s cheek. “Does it seem to you I spend a great deal of my life in exile from the court for some indiscretion or the other, George? But I have never been happier.” She motioned him to a chair in the parlor and they sat close together. “Perhaps you had best not report that I am so content here. Tell father, for instance, I have never been more wretched and maybe he will leave me alone.”
“You are still bitter, Mary, though I do not blame you. You have never learned to just accept the inevitable the way I have, nor do you ever attack him as Anne does.”
“Have you always accepted the inevitable, brother?”
“Ever since I had to marry Jane and I saw that the fact I wanted Margot Wyatt more than anything was nothing to him. Yes, Mary. Since then I have taken my pleasures out of sight of them all and be damned to them. Except for mother and Anne, of course.”
“Are you telling me there has been someone else to fill the void Jane could never fill in your life?” she prodded, intrigued.
“Not really someone like Staff is to you, Mary. Several someones over the years, you might say. There is a certain woman living at Beaulieu now, and she is content to await the few days I can seize to spend there. Anne knows, of course, but I warrant father and Cromwell have missed this one.” He grinned like a small boy who has gotten away with stealing chickens from the farmer. “Beyond that, I am much busy on king’s business. Speaking of that, I understand you correspond with Master Cromwell.”
“Yes, we do. Is that the nature of your business here, to tell us we are to lose our last line to the court?”
“No, of course not. I wanted mostly to see you and know how you are faring. It is a small manor, but a productive one, I would judge.”
“Do not try to put me off, George. I have been around longer than you and know how things go. Did Cromwell or father send you? I cannot dare to hope it was Anne.”
“I am sorry, Mary. It was not Anne. Truly, Cromwell sends his fondest greetings. Do you actually trust Cromwell, then?”
“My Lord Stafford is not such an innocent to trust Cromwell, but they have made some sort of bargain to work together it would seem. George, will you carry a letter I have written to him? We usually wait until he sends a messenger and then just return a note with the man.”
“I shall take it back for you. You alone wrote this letter? Is it secret?”
“Not secret, but I want him, and anyone he would care to tell, to know what it is really like for me now. Anne has not forgiven me, and I am grieved for that, but I regret nothing. It is there on the mantel. If you will get it, I will read you a part. Thank you. I do not want it to be secret, George. It is my letter to the world, if you would call it that.”