Fall from Grace
Thomas Howard, The Tower of London, 19 January 1547
It has all come to nothing. The plots and the plans, all ended, all over. The king’s last pathetic campaign to recapture lost holdings in France was a miserable failure. The reformist queen Catherine Parr still sits the throne despite all efforts to oust her.
My daughter, my beautiful Mary, was given a chance to sit under the canopy of state, but her histrionics in the face of that suggestion were enough to thwart the whole stratagem. It is a night forever emblazoned on my mind, the night Mary refused to be queen. How she carried on, vowing to slit her own throat rather than take part in the villainy of my plot. Then somewhere between the screaming and the struggling, in the midst of our shared insanity I glimpsed her again, shining out of the eyes of my daughter, my princess. In that moment I knew it did not matter that Mary would not become queen, that my dreams had all come to naught. In that moment everything was forgotten between us, all the hate and the confusion. There were no words. For once we did not need words. It was all there, communicated in one pained gaze and betrayed by a parting kiss. For that instant our souls fled their confining bodies, rising and curling and merging like smoke from the flames of our agonizing connection, unable to be viewed as separate beings. But they returned, imprisoned once more. The moment was gone. And then she was gone, back to Kenninghall, back to life, and I was alone just as I have always been alone.
Yet I am consoled. Mary made the right choice; her wild demonstrations saved her from the king. And from me.
I pressed on—I am a Howard; isn’t that what Howards do? I schemed and connived because that is what I was bred for. I conspired against the queen. I would have the Protestant bitch brought down, but even convincing charges of heresy against her were dropped in the end. She has a hold on Henry VIII, does this Catherine.
And so I decided if I am failed I’d best join the powers that be. I planned a triple alliance. Two of my son Lord Surrey’s daughters were to marry two sons of the prince’s uncle Edward Seymour, Lord Hertfords. My Mary was to wed the rakish Tom Seymour. Though she had once refused him, she was eager for the union now. She wanted it, I think. And it would have been a comfort to me to see her married at last. She could have the children she had longed for her entire life . . . but in the end her hotheaded brother confronted her in the Long Gallery at court. He’d have none of his family mixed with the upstart Seymour clan, he cried, and suggested she become the king’s mistress should she yearn for such power. No brain in his head, that stupid boy! How could I have sired such an idiot! He made fools of us all and no matches were made nor will ever be made. It is done, all done.
Surrey, my brilliant poet-soldier, my beautiful boy, proved to be the ruin of us all. For all the time I was plotting, he was plotting, and all for the good of the Howards, or so he thought. But Surrey was never as clever as I. Not even close. He was all whimsy, all heart—a bloody romantic fool. I will never be able to comprehend it. Why he quartered his arms with that of Edward the Confessor, a right that is reserved only for kings, why he would risk thinking about kidnapping the little prince, why he would boast so openly about what the Howards would do once we had control of him. . . . If any of those things had even been possible before, they are not now. For my part, a part I did not even play, I am arrested and stripped of all my titles. How thrilled were my peers when they took away my staffs of office and Garter chain! When I declared my allegiance and faithfulness to the king from the barge on the way to the Tower, their lips twitched in suppressed laughter. They did not believe me, I who always served the king before anyone and anything, before my own family! God, and for what? For a cold, damp cell in the Tower.
I have failed. I have failed my father, I have failed my children, I have failed myself. Now, like he once was, I am a prisoner along with my son, who would have succeeded me as fourth duke of Norfolk but who is now condemned to die.
Surrey is to die today and all for being impulsive and foolish. Surrey is to die and I am betrayed. Elizabeth was happy to testify against me, of that there was never a doubt, and for her part I can hardly blame her. But Bess . . . my Bess . . . What did I ever do to her but give her everything she could have wanted? Yes, I took the baby. But I was protecting her! Why couldn’t she see that? She said she understood! She never complained or protested, not in three years! She visited the child as much as she wanted; it could not have been a better arrangement, and after while I planned to restore her the child. But she nursed her pain and her hatred, nursed it like the babe I denied her till it grew into a force greater than all of us. How long must she have been waiting for this moment! When asked to recall any statements I may have made against king and country, she remembered. Ah, what clarity of mind did my Bess possess when she relayed my treasonous prediction of the king’s impending death! Yes, that and every other offensive statement I ever could have uttered in confidence. And so she betrayed me, betrayed me for a child who is likely to die anyway and leave her with a heartbreak more agonizing than anything I could ever inflict. She will learn that for herself; my protection is no longer hers even if I wanted it to be.
And then there was my Mary . . . foolish little Mary who never knew from one minute to the next what to do. She implicated her brother and tried to save me by pleading my ignorance of his plots. True enough. I was ignorant of his schemes, but if it means saving my life, I will confess to knowing everything. I’ll do anything to survive.
Surrey will not. Surrey, who even dared an unsuccessful escape from the Tower, will not survive. He will die for his unswerving pride.
By the window I watch. Below me my son stands in front of the throng, who jeers him and taunts him; Mary is there with his wife, Frances de Vere. The latter’s head is buried in my daughter’s delicate shoulder.
Surrey kneels before the block . . . oh, God . . . he spreads his arms like angel wings, commending his soul to the Lord. He is just a boy, a foolish twenty-nine-year-old boy-child. I think back to my twenty-ninth year—what did I really know then? Surrey places his head on the block. . . . Five children he is leaving behind, three girls and two boys, two beautiful boys with curly hair. . . . Tears stream down my face as I curl my hands about the painfully freezing grid of bars that are my window. A flash of memory recalls to mind him playing in the gardens with Mary as children. He is placing a garland upon her golden head. . . .
The axe cuts through the air with mortal precision.
I watch my son, my son who once was the baby I held in my arms; I watch his head tumble into the straw. I watch the endless stream of blood flow from the twitching torso, red as the ruby necklace he coveted in Mary’s childhood nightmare, a nightmare that foretold our family’s doom with brutal accuracy.
Thunderous cannon announces the death of Surrey to the bedridden king. My body convulses with sobs. Elizabeth . . . What must Elizabeth be thinking right now? Thank God she is not here. Thank God she has removed to Kenninghall and cannot see this terrible thing!
And Mary, what is my Mary doing? She stands erect, staring at her brother’s lifeless form. She is holding his sobbing wife. She does not cry; she does nothing.
Oh, God, let the girl cry . . . please let her cry!
She does not. She turns Frances away from the gruesome scene and together they quit the green.
The crowd disperses and the ravens surround my boy. . . .
The room is spinning. Bile is rising in my throat.
So this is where it has all led me.
I cannot stand. I sink onto the bed and lie back before my consciousness is stolen from me along with everything else.
How did I get it all so wrong?
Cannon. Bells. What is happening? I go to the window. Another execution? Footfalls in the hall. My guard bursts in.
“The king is dead—on 28 January, His Majesty passed! Long live King Edward VI!” cries Lieutenant of the Tower Sir John Markham.
I fall to my knees, stretching my arms toward Heaven. “Long live the king!” I cry in turn. I scramble to my feet at once. “Is there any news on my attainder?”
“You remain attainted and thus imprisoned,” says Markham, but he is smiling. “But you are no longer to be executed. His Majesty did not sign your death warrant. It appears he would not.”
“Then he did love me! In the face of everything—” I cut myself short; this is not a discussion for Markham. “So the Seymours will not release me. Ha! I’m that much of a threat, am I?” I laugh. “I imagine Lord Hertford, the boy king’s uncle, is regent?”
“Yes,” says Markham. “He has been created lord protector of England and is now the Duke of Somerset.”
“God,” I say with a smirk. “Well. Fortunes shift all the time, it seems, and mine will, too. In time.”
Markham regards me, his expression a mingling of surprise and pity. I turn away from him.
“Thank you, Sir John, for informing me,” I tell him as I wave him away, taking comfort in what little power I still retain. “You are dismissed.”
With a slight laugh that raises the hairs on my neck, Markham quits the cell.
I sit on the bed and think about the late King Henry, Henry my nephew, Henry my friend. Henry my enemy. Everything I did was to keep his favor; indeed, I would have risked the flames of Hell for him. Had he been a little stronger, would he have had me released?
I’d like to think so.
Bess Holland, Mendham, Suffolk
How strange it should end this way. Just when I believed there was no hope for the duke, he is spared. I am glad. Though I testified against him, my conscience could not have borne his death. Now he resides in the Tower and I am freed from his suffocating love at last.
And yet I am sad. Sad for never saying good-bye, sad for the twenty years given to him that I can never get back, sad for loving him despite everything he was. Sad because he knows my evidence is what sealed his fate. Sad because of the daughter I am denied.
Joy permeates despair, however, and hope prevails over sorrow.
I am to be married. Me, Bessie Holland, Norfolk’s whore, is to be married! Someone wants me, someone will still take me!
My brother hastily arranged the match. This summer I shall wed Henry Reppes, an East Anglian justice of the peace. Because of my cooperation in testifying against the duke, I have been granted my lands at Mendham, Suffolk, and all of my jewels have been returned to me, so I will come into this marriage as a femme sole. An independent woman of means.
Henry is a fine man close to my age. He is endearingly shy and when he presented me with a dainty gold band to plight our troth, his thick hands trembled. He is a big man, tall and strong with long, well-turned legs. I would not think him to be a JP but rather a hard-working farmer. His blue eyes reflect nothing but kindness, his smile is easy and sweet, and his speech is soft.
There is not a man on this earth more opposite of the duke of Norfolk than this Henry Reppes, and the fact makes me want to skip with joy.
“I hope you are happy with me, Miss Holland,” he tells me the night he plights his troth. “I cannot give you much; I am not a wealthy man. But you will always have what you need.” He offers a gentle smile. “And you will always have my respect and devotion.”
Oh, such fair words! Can I believe them? Has His Grace ever spoken such sweetness? Yes. But it always seemed empty, as though it was just to placate me. I must stop thinking of him. . . .
I am still not quite over the fact that Henry addressed me as Miss Holland. No longer am I called the inaccurate and humiliating Mrs. I am a miss and for once am not ashamed.
“I am most pleased with the match,” I tell him, reaching out to squeeze his large hand. “And I will be a loving and faithful wife to you.”
His lip quivers. Tears light his blue eyes; they shine brilliant topaz. He leans across the table and takes me in his arms, placing the gentlest of kisses on my mouth. I wrap my arms about his neck, shocked to feel so much affection for a virtual stranger.
We remain locked in that embrace for a long time and I begin to plan for the future I never thought I’d have. We will have a family, Henry and I. And after the wedding I will tell him about Jane, and he will help me retrieve her from Norfolk House.
It seems God in His mercy is giving me a second chance at first love.
Thomas Howard
After a month of imprisonment, I am allowed a visitor. That it should be my Mary seems most appropriate, though our reunion is far from joyous. Surrey’s death envelops us in grief; there is no escaping it. How much have I to say to this girl! But the words stick in my throat. They are fool’s words anyway, sentiments that would change nothing after all we have endured. There is no point.
So Mary leaves, taking with her all the beauty and light I am permitted to see. It is after her visit that the full impact of my imprisonment hits me like a lance to the chest. I ache all the time. I lie in my bed. I pace the small room on restless legs. Screams from the tortured assault me and I am reminded of past residents of this Tower. They visit me every night, taking turns keeping vigil by my bedside. My nieces Anne and Kitty stand there. Anne’s black eyes reflect a mingling of accusation and amusement at my plight. Kitty’s blue eyes reflect nothing but her bewildered sense of betrayal. My father stands there sometimes, shaking his head in grave disappointment. My brother Thomas, who wasted away here for the crime of loving the king’s niece Margaret Douglas, also appears now and then. His young face registers a sustained anger that chills me to the core.
The two princes are here as well, my little murdered brothers-in-law. Yes, they are here, forever children, and they look up at me, their eyes pleading. Why? they ask me. Why do the innocent perish while evil reigns supreme?
Because, children, there are people like me in this world, and as long as there are, the innocent will expire. There is no room for innocence, no room for the pure. God calls the good to His bosom and leaves existence to the rest of us.
My princess comes. She stands at the foot of my bed, her face wrought with sadness. Her eyes assault me with questions. What happened to you?
You died, I answer. You died and left me alone! Any chance of redemption resides somewhere in the faery country, never to be reclaimed.
I reach out to touch her, but as with all these specters, she fades away and I am grasping air.
I lie back in bed, throwing my arm over my eyes to blot out the images. Tears wet my sleeve. Someone is screaming from the dungeons below.
Surely I am in Hell.
In March I am granted a better “suite” of rooms with servants to attend me, clothing befitting my station, and more freedom. I can now take brief walks with the lieutenant. I am even permitted a visit from my wife. I had not seen her in years and find myself struck by her beauty. Her figure is as trim as a girl’s; her dark hair is lustrous without a streak of gray, her skin is so smooth. . . . My God, did I never see it? How is it a woman her age can be so beautiful and well preserved? Though she betrayed me, a fact I will never forget, I am glad to see her. Our exchange is full of the same biting wit and I am rejuvenated.
We do not spend much time discussing Surrey; it is a topic far too painful for both of us. Instead she is thrilled to inform me of Bess’s impending wedding. I hide my shock behind an impervious mask and let Elizabeth revel in her triumph. But when she leaves, I sink onto the bed and stare at the wall, allowing icy tears to slither down my cheeks. Bess has not waited even six months to secure a match. How could I have not perceived the depth of her hatred?
Elizabeth was right to mock me. What a laughingstock I have become.
She returns now and again, sometimes with my Mary, sometimes without. I cannot help it. My heart races when she enters the room. When she arrives one autumn afternoon with an armful of books, I must refrain from running to her.
She stands smart in her russet gown, looking at least ten years younger than her fifty years. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief and mockery.
“For your pleasure, my lord,” she tells me, handing me the books. “I was told you said you couldn’t sleep the past dozen years without reading. Surely you do not count the Scriptures among your repertoire?”
I laugh. “I memorized enough verse to instill guilt in the children. It does not suit me to delve further.”
She graces me with a smile and I am reminded of the little girl I danced with so many years ago. “No, I suppose it would be rather hypocritical,” she says.
“So,” I begin. “It seems all I own has been plundered by the Seymours and their vultures. My lands, my jewels, everything.”
“Yes,” she replies. “What doesn’t belong to the Crown has been divided among Somerset and his cronies. It’s a sad day for the Howards.” Her face registers genuine pity. “But I have done fair enough and have a little to sustain me. Bess was compensated as well for her troubles,” she is compelled to add.
I stifle a scathing retort. With the lieutenant never far away, I am not able to be as free in my speech as I could have been were we alone.
“Everyone profits from another’s demise,” I comment.
“You certainly did,” she says. “For many years.”
“I suppose I did,” I agree.
“You know, you’re still handsome as the very Devil,” she says in low tones. She approaches me and takes my hands. A lump swells in my throat. I swallow several times. “All those years of cavorting with him has done you some good,” she adds as she leans forward to kiss me. I return it. Her lips are soft and familiar, filled with that old fire and passion. I find myself wrapping my arms about her slim frame and pulling her close. I want her. Suddenly, there is no one on earth I want more than this woman, my wife.
We clasp each other a long moment. There is a tap at the door. Her visit is at an end.
She draws back, offering that same mocking smile before turning away. As she reaches the door, I am compelled to say, “Elizabeth . . . do you remember when you were but a girl and we were celebrating the birth of poor Catherine of Aragon’s little prince?” She pauses, her back still turned to me. “The crowds turned wild and stole our clothes. Thomas Knyvet was bare-arsed by the end of that affair.”
She offers a slight laugh, turning to face me. Her blue eyes are soft with tears. “Those old crones were stealing my sleeves when you rescued me. I thought you were a hero then.”
I bow my head. I cannot bear looking at her. “Elizabeth . . .”
“Yes, Thomas?” she asks in a small voice. If I closed my eyes, I’d believe she was the little twelve-year-old I rescued all those years ago.
What is there to say? Sorry? Am I sorry? If I had the chance to do it all again, wouldn’t I do everything the same way? There is no going back, no righting wrongs. There are no second chances.
“Take care, Elizabeth,” I tell her.
She turns her head and nods before quitting the room, leaving me alone again.
Bess Holland Reppes
I am married! I am a bride and a happier bride cannot be found. The world is full of beauty and hope and my husband’s gentle love. I am thirty-seven years old but run with the love madness of a girl. Within six months of marriage, my womb has quickened with his child and we await the birth of our baby with joy. The midwife—how I wish it were Tsura Goodman—is a woman ten years my junior, but she is capable and kind. I tell my husband—oh, the pleasure of saying that word, husband—I will have no wet nurses about. I will care for my own child, and all the children who follow, myself. He does not fight me on a thing. How strange to have such an agreeable partner!
I have not forgotten the duke or his family. Henry is teaching me to read and write, and Mary Fitzroy and I keep correspondence. She is very patient with my poor spelling and worse handwriting! She tells me she has been awarded custody of her late brother’s five children and has removed to Reigate to raise and educate them. There she has found respite with her aunt and uncle and is enjoying a friendship with the children’s tutor, John Foxe. She is most happy with the religious reforms King Edward VI’s government is making. Always a devout girl, Mary is finally allowed the freedom of practicing the Protestant faith. She has found peace at last, and my heart surges with happiness for my dear friend.
I have not made many new friends yet. My husband and I have been far too involved with each other to socialize, which suits me well. There will be plenty enough time for that later.
This pregnancy is too hard on me to entertain as it is. Often I have the queer sensation that the baby is going to fall out of me. It sits so low in my belly that I am fraught with discomfort. Unlike my easy confinement with Jane, I am ill most of the time with bad bile and cannot take in much nourishment. My husband dotes on me, feeding me broth with his own hand and swabbing my burning forehead with cool cloths whenever I take a fever.
I thank God on my knees every day that He has been so forgiving, that, despite my past sins with the duke, I am still allowed to know this great love.
“You are happy, Mrs. Reppes?” my husband likes to ask as he rubs my swollen belly.
I look up into his gentle blue eyes, eyes that do not know how to deceive, eyes that cannot conceive of cruelty, and tell him, “Yes, Mr. Reppes—there is no woman on earth so happy as me.”
And there isn’t.
Elizabeth Howard
Antagonizing Thomas in the Tower assuages my grief for Surrey; indeed it is about as close to Heaven as I have ever gotten. I cannot help it. I thrive on our visits. Knowing he is a prisoner as I was for so many years fills me with a sweet sense of satisfaction that I know is unholy. Despite this I cannot deny myself the immense pleasure I derive from his misery.
And yet when I see him, my breath catches in my throat. I kiss him, I embrace him, we fire back our timeless witticisms and insults and I know that whatever has been between us, I am relieved he has not been killed. I am glad he is safe and made to reflect upon his many sins. I pray he will receive forgiveness. As time passes I realize that I do not wish any more ill will on Thomas Howard.
When not with Thomas, I enjoy the freedom I have not known these past thirteen years. I visit my sisters and their families. I have even called upon Catherine and Ralph. No more does my heart race for the earl of Westmorland. I am at peace.
In the spring of 1548 I receive a most unusual dispatch from a breathless messenger of one JP called Henry Reppes. The name rings familiar. Reppes. Yes, of course. Bess Holland’s husband. What on earth could they want with me?
I take the dispatch with trembling hands.
Lady Norfolk,
I do not write well and my hand is very poor but I knew I must find some way to reach you. I have taken ill unto death. I have no right to ask anything of you but I pray God works forgiveness in your heart and you will see me. Please come straight away. There is much to say and little time.
Your obedient servant,
Elizabeth Reppes
Bess is ill—gravely ill. I repeat this to myself several times. My rival of twenty years, the woman who put me out of house and home, the woman who claimed my husband’s heart almost above all others and drove him to distraction, wants to see me. Why? Does she seek absolution for her many grievous sins? What gives me the authority to grant it?
And yet if I do not go to her, what kind of Christian am I? Does not the Lord command us to forgive in order to be forgiven? What kind of courage must Bess possess to seek me out and make peace?
But do I forgive her? I want to be a good Christian. Catherine of Aragon forgave Anne Boleyn and the king even as she rallied against their ill-fated liaison. Have I not always striven to follow my long-suffering queen’s example? Is this not what she would want me—no, command me—to do?
I am not going to her of my own will. As I call for my cloak and coach, I realize a force much stronger than I is drawing me to the deathbed of Elizabeth Holland Reppes.
I go in secret, taking only my most faithful servant to attend me. I do not know what my family and friends would make of the visit so decide discretion is the best course. I laugh at the irony. For years I did the unthinkable, railing against a cherished system and airing my grievances to God and the king and anyone who would listen. And now I choose secrecy. Now my purpose is veiled in anonymity. But it is as it should be. God knows I am here, after all, and His is the only opinion that matters.
When I arrive at Mendham, I am led to Bess’s bedchamber. She lies there, white-blond hair matted to her forehead with sweat, eyelids fluttering as she mutters something incoherent to the nurse who swabs her forehead. Her agonized husband sits beside her, gripping her hand, tears streaming down his handsome face.
“Oh, Bess, Bess, Bess,” he murmurs over and over. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. . . .”
“The Duchess of Norfolk,” announces a servant as I am shown into the room.
Henry Reppes rises and offers a bow.
I curtsy. “Dear sir, how sorry I am to meet you under these circumstances.”
“There are no words to express my gratitude that you have chosen to come,” he tells me. “Bess has been calling for you these past three days.” His voice catches. “It has been a terrible time, my lady.”
“It is childbed fever.” It is not a question.
He nods as he dissolves into sobs.
“The baby?” I ask.
“Our son was born dead,” he informs me, burying his face in his hands.
I rush toward him, enfolding the poor man in my arms. “Oh, my dear, trust that God has taken him to His bosom,” I tell him, stroking his blond hair. “And understand from one who has lost much that you will know happiness and peace again. That you can get through this.”
He draws back, regarding me with bewildered blue eyes.
“Now go rest and take in some nourishment. I will keep company with Bess and send for you should her condition change,” I tell him.
In a haze the man allows himself to be escorted from the room by a doting steward.
I relieve the nurse, taking the cool cloth from her hand and swabbing Bess’s forehead. Never in my wildest fantasies would I ever have seen myself in this place. And now that I am here, I derive no satisfaction from it, no perverse pleasure in my rival’s suffering. I look upon her, this wronged girl, and see nothing but a woman who reached out for happiness. To my surprise I thank God that she found it, if only for a little while.
“Bess,” I say in soft tones. “Bess, it is the duchess of Norfolk. Can you hear me?”
Bess flinches at the word Norfolk and stirs, forcing her eyes open. The brown orbs are glazed over; the whites are yellow. She stares at me a long moment, drawing me into focus, then offers a timid smile.
“My lady . . . you came,” she murmurs.
I take her hand, nodding. She offers a faint squeeze.
“I did many bad things to you,” she tells me.
“Yes,” I agree. I will not lie but neither will I treat her with a malice I no longer feel.
“But the very worst thing was that . . . I never stood up,” she says. “I never stood up . . . instead I stood by. I stood by while the duke tortured and imprisoned you. I stood by while he ruined my own life, a life I turned over to him for the sake of a girlish infatuation that turned cold all too quickly and ended in hate.”
“It’s all right now,” I tell her. “The duke cannot hurt anyone anymore.”
“My lady.” Her voice is very weak; it is pulled forth in a raspy whisper. “My lady, I have lost my son and I have lost my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” I tilt a brow in confusion. Is she yielding to delusions?
“Oh, my lady, yes . . . the very worst thing. I stole from the duke a daughter. She was born in forty-three. Her name is Jane Goodman and she resides at Norfolk House.” Bess takes in a deep breath. “I never got to say good-bye. Will you see her for me? Will you tell her . . . ?” She gasps. Her eyes are wild with fear as she grapples with the reality of leaving this world.
“I’ll tell her,” I say in urgency. I stroke her burning cheek. “You must not worry, Bess. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I’ll not ask your forgiveness,” Bess goes on. She raises her hand and removes from her finger a heavy signet ring bearing a lion with an arrow piercing its tongue. I recognize it in an instant as the ring my duke bestowed upon each of us at different times in his turbulent life. “But I will give you back another thing I stole. Please take it. It belonged to you first and belongs to you last.”
I take the ring but do not put it on. Instead I tuck it into the pocket of my gown.
I rise. “I shall send for your husband now, darling. He will want to be beside you.”
She smiles. “Oh, yes. My husband . . . my dear, sweet husband . . . how I love to say that word. . . .”
In that instant I realize that for years Bess was as much a prisoner as I. Charity and compassion surge through me as I seize her hand in mine and press it to my lips.
“Bess, you do not have to ask for my forgiveness,” I tell her. “Because you have it. Always.”
Tears stream down Bess’s cheeks unchecked. Her hand relaxes in mine. She closes her eyes. Her head lolls to one side.
I kiss her hand once more, then lay it at her side.
Quietly, I quit the room as her husband brushes past me screaming, “Bess, no! Oh, Bess, no!”
My steps quicken as I make my retreat. I reach in my pocket. The signet ring is warm in my hand. Hot tears stream down my cheeks for Thomas’s former mistress, tears I never thought I’d shed.
Oh, God, take her home. Put to rest the sweet soul of Bess Holland Reppes.