Yes, the girl would go far. She was so poised, spirited and clever. Even her needlework made Mary’s look crude by comparison. Anne’s stitches were tiny and delicate even though she secreted her deformed hand beneath her work. If she ever really dared to stand up to father when he chose to wed her to someone she did not favor, Mary would like to be there to see the scene. Anne had much to learn about many things, including their father.
Mary sighed and stood slowly. If only the child would come. If it could only be over! How she would like to mount Donette and ride like the wind across the meadows to the Eden and lie on her back under the beeches with her hands behind her head. Perhaps if she were not summoned back to court...but Will could manage to keep his position, she could just live with mother and raise her son here.
She walked slowly around the patches of mint and dill which encircled the stone sundial. Sky-blue morning glories clung to its fluted base. It was noon, dead noon, and the iron finger set to tell the time threw no shadows. Time, time. Another minute, another hour, another sharp shadow on the face on the stone dial. Five months away from court, two years away from France, so far away from safety, security and peace. The king had sent her a tiny enamelled box and one garnet necklace in those five months, but what did that assure? He might never want her back. Father had said they could arrange her return to London, but she was not certain of that. Will had made only four visits in five months. His sister Eleanor stayed on at court and he would probably rather be near her than his wife anyway, since her Carey blood is not from some forced marriage.
The April sun gave a warm embrace, but she wandered a bit off the path into the shade of a skinny-leafed weeping willow near the little pond. How she would love to stoop and pick those tight-clustered violets, but she could not. This time next year, pray God, she would have her babe in her arms, and could stoop to pick them.
A branch rustled behind her and she spun her head sharply. “Oh, Michael, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”
The thin, gangly boy smiled shyly at her. His front teeth gapped wide, and he seldom smiled outright. He reminded her of George years ago, before France, but his hair was flame-colored and masses of freckles dotted his long face.
“I didna’ mean to scare you, Lady Mary. I was jus’ walking through and I thought to see you be all right since the Lady Anne left you.”
“I appreciate that, Michael. And I have wanted to thank you for the cuttings of forsythia and pussywillow during the rains. They lightened my dark room and cheered me tremendously.”
He smiled again, his felt hat held nervously in his awkward hands. “I was tellin’ my mother it is too bad the Lady Mary has to come back to visit in the winter months, for she always loved the gardens best of all the Bullens. I try my best to keep them nice for the lord and lady. The lord, he ne’er sees them, but Lady Elizabeth, she loves them, an’ I know you do too.”
“We all appreciate the fine work the gardeners do, Michael. I am glad to see you so grown. Will you wed soon?”
“There be no one I fancy now, lady, but if I find someone, I will ask my mother and Lady Elizabeth for permission, and wed with her gladly.” He took a step closer in the spotted shade. “I remember the day we had to look for the lost spaniel in the box hedges, lady. And I remember best the day the king came to Hever and walked in my rose garden.”
Simple pride shone on his face, but Mary did not miss the fact that his eyes dropped swiftly, accusingly, to her rounded belly. Even the servants knew and whispered that the child the Lady Mary carried was the king’s.
She turned away, suddenly terribly hurt by his simple face and gentle gaze. What honor could there be in bearing a bastard to the king if honest servant’s eyes accused? Even peasants who worked the gardens with their hands were free to choose whom they wed.
A stab of pain gripped her at the waistline and spread swiftly downward, crushing the breath from her. This was no agony of guilt, memory, remorse or a false pain of birth. This was different. Her knees nearly buckled and she leaned heavily on the tree trunk. “Michael, fetch...my mother.”
“I can help you to sit, lady. I will fetch her.”
He grasped both arms above her elbows. She would have shouted at him not to touch her, but the next wave of pain staggered her and she toppled against his grimy chest. He backed carefully out onto the gravel path holding her up by her arms. Her legs followed wobbily, draggingly. Tears of fear and pain coursed down her cheeks, and she bit her lip.