CHAPTER THIRTY

October 22, 1534

Wivenhoe Manor

It had been the most marvelous summer Mary could remember. Now the trees and shrubs and flowers of Wivenhoe flaunted their riot of autumn colors, and she wondered how long the sequestered beauty would dare to last in her life. She was heavy with child, but the joy she felt with her husband and daughter about her in their new home made her almost forget the agonies of her heart. Despite the peace of Wivenhoe, her thoughts went often to London and she prayed that her sister would find peace and love and bear her husband an heir. And too, she prayed that Anne would forgive her this secret marriage and the child—forgive her, as Will Carey had not, for the love she bore Staff. When her prayers turned to her father, no words would come—only rattled hopes and jagged emotions.

“Do you really think today will be the day, mother?” nine-year-old Catherine asked for the third time in the last hour. “It is so exciting, and you promised I could help care for him after he is born.” The girl’s eyes darted up from the sampler she was stitching and she smiled.

“Yes, my dear, you will be a tremendous help. But remember, the babe may well be a little sister.”

“Somehow, mother, somehow I just feel it is a boy. We never see Harry much, so it will take his place.”

“One child never really takes the place of another in a parent’s love, Catherine. You will understand that someday.” Mary tried to sit erect on the stone bench in the herb garden, but her back ached so it really did no good. She would have to lie down or get Staff or Nancy to rub it. It worried her that she felt so tired when she was surely on the threshold of labor, where she would need all her strength. It had been nine years since she had delivered a child.

“But if the queen bears the king a son, it will surely replace my cousin Elizabeth in their love, mother,” Catherine was arguing. “Then she will be most sad when she grows up that her father will love her not. Brennan told me...”

“You must not listen to Brennan so much, my love,” Mary chided gently, trying to keep the scolding tone from her voice. “Brennan is only the cook in a small country manor and knows nothing of London and the court. Besides, Elizabeth will grow up to be a fine princess of the realm at the very least. You must keep her spirits up and be a friend to her should the queen send for you to live in the princess’s company as she has promised she would.”

“Maybe the queen is so busy that she forgot, mother. I have been here a whole two months since I left grandmother at Hever.”

“Well, let’s not speak of that now, sweet. Run and fetch Nancy for me. Staff is out making some sort of bargain with his threshers in the grain fields and he will be back soon. I may take a little nap.”

“But it is not your time, is it?”

“No, my lass. Now go fetch Nancy.”

Catherine scurried off, her flying feet on the gravel path making a rapid rhythmic crunching. She ran behind the stone fence and Mary could see only the top golden curls of her head bobbing along before she disappeared into the kitchen entry. The ivy-draped walls of the house reflected in the fishpond and the stark contrast of whitewashed walls and dark patterned wood made an image of a second Wivenhoe in its calm watery surface. Mary treasured Wivenhoe, as she always had Hever, for the calm and peace it gave. Then, too, there were gentle water lilies floating endlessly on this tiny pond as they had at The Golden Gull in Banstead. Even the manor’s ghost disturbed them not, though Mary had heard the stairboards creak at night and sensed unrest. Staff told her it was her own unrest and that the spirit visits had never yet occurred when he had been in the house. It was only the senile ravings of his old maiden aunt, he said. But Mary thought otherwise.

Once at supper, she had forced him into a debate over who the strange visitor might be who creaked the stairs. “My Aunt Susan always insisted it was my Uncle Humphrey, since he was the one hanged at Tyburn, and everyone thought a ghost must have a violent death,” he had said.

“But what do you believe, my love,” she had prompted.

“I reason that if there is any such thing, my Mary, it is my own father,” he had admitted. “You see, this manor was his birthright and Humphrey had Stonehouse Manor nearer to Colchester before they lost that as a result of the rebellion. Then too, my father died of fever in this house and, as far as I can tell, the ghost never acts up when I am in the house. Though my mother died here giving birth to me, the ghost never came until my father died. It is almost as if,” he concluded, his eyes growing distant and his voice softer, “as if my father is unsettled when I am at court in the hands of the king, so to speak, and rests quietly when I visit, and especially now that we reside here. It is only a theory if I am to believe any of my old aunt’s tales and warnings. Perhaps the stairs just creak, for I have seen nothing of it, despite the old lady’s stories of furniture moved about and doors ajar. If it comes now at all,” he had teased, “it will surely be to see what a beautiful wife and daughter I have brought to Wivenhoe. But you had best not tell little Catherine the tale. And do not worry yourself, for it is quite a friendly ghost.”

“How can you be sure?” she had probed, still nervous about the possibility of a haunted manorhouse.

“He fears not to creak about in day as well as night. Now the best folk tellers know that no evil ghost would dare that.” She had not been certain in the end if he were teasing or not, so she had let the matter drop. It was her own haunted mind, he had said, and well, maybe he was right.

But there had been no ghosts upon their joyous arrival here to live at Wivenhoe, she recalled, and a smile lit her tired face at the memory. Staff had carried her, dirt-stained and road-weary as she was, across the threshhold shouting for his shocked staff to assemble to greet the lord who so seldom visited and his new lady they had never seen. Safe at last in the oaken and stucco arms of charming Wivenhoe, Staff, Mary, Nancy, and Stephen had laughed and hugged one another in a raucous self-welcome. The eight-member household staff had stood in troubled awe at first to hear their new mistress was sister to the Great Henry’s Queen Anne Boleyn, but soon enough they had accepted and grew to like her too.

Proudly, bursting with enthusiasm, Staff had shown her the trim and lovely manorhouse of three gabled storeys. On the ground floor a solar, dining hall and kitchen rooms including pantry, buttery, and bolting room where all the storing and sifting of flour took place. Up the carved oak staircase, the master’s bedroom and sitting room and four other, smaller bedrooms. Above, under the high-peaked rafters, the servants’ rooms and extra storage. The house lay in a huge H-shape surrounded by garden plots, orchards and this lovely pond where she sat now.

The furniture inside consisted mostly of big, carved Medieval pieces Staff promised her they would replace over the years, but Mary had loved it all instantly. So like Hever in the rich, polished patina of the oaks, maples, and cherry woods; so open to the fresh smells of the gardens, yet so warm and cozy within. And best, she loved their tall dark oak bedstead with the carved tendrils of vines and flowers twisting up the four heavy posters which supported the intricately scrolled and crested wood canopy overhead. Even now, as autumn began, she could picture the crisp winter nights to come when they would pull the beige embroidered bed curtains closed and have their own safe world away from Cromwell’s spies and the sudden summons of the king.

“Little Catherine says you would take a nap, lady,” Nancy’s voice broke into her reverie.

“Oh, yes, Nance. You gave me a start. If you would just come with me up the steep stairs and help me into bed, I would appreciate it. It is getting to be a dark day, is it not? The lord should be back soon. If it rains on the grain crop so near harvest time, he will be in a black mood.”

“Have you pains yet, lady?” Mary shook her head.

They went in through the narrow open hearth kitchen and Brennan looked up from kneading a huge wooden trencher of bread dough. Her eyes widened at the sight of Nancy helping Mary toward the hall.

“No, Brennan,” Nance answered the unspoken question. “We need not send Stephen for the village midwife yet, but just stay about in case we need boiling water.”

“She is a fine cook, Nance, but somewhat of a gossip.” Mary observed as they left the kitchen. “Jane Rochford would consider her a dangerous rival of scandal mongering if we took her to court, I warrant.”

The parlor lay silent and dim off the narrow front entry hall as they ascended the steps. Although the oak staircase was dark and gloomy since no sun streamed through windows today, the stairs were well built and never creaked under even Staff’s weight. That is one indication that the Wivenhoe ghost truly does walk here, Mary reasoned nervously.

Their bed was a tall, square one and the carved walnut cradle for the new baby stood ready at its side. Mary sat and Nancy swung her feet up. “No, no, do not cover me. It is warm enough. And if the lord comes, do not let me sleep long.”

“Yes, milady.” Nancy pulled the heavy curtains over the two diamond paned windows and turned to go.

“Nancy. I have not been too short with you lately, have I?”

“No, Lady Mary. But if you were, I would understand with the babe comin’ and all.”

“And all. Yes, it is more than just the babe, Nance. I so often think of the queen unhappy and far away. It seems terribly unfair that I am here with Staff and things are so peaceful. You and Stephen are happy, I know. I can see it.”

“I have never been so happy, lady. Perhaps I shall bear my Stephen a son in God’s good time. I told him to stay close today and so did the lord. He can go for the midwife any time, lady.”

“Yes, Nance. Thank you. Go on now and get me up for supper if I fall asleep.” Nancy closed the door to the room quietly.

The manorhouse was very silent. Staff’s groom, Patrick, had probably taken Catherine for her afternoon ride as he did when Staff was looking to manor business or spending the afternoon with Mary. And Brennan kneaded bread and Mary needed Staff and Anne needed a child. She got so tired some afternoons that she almost dozed sitting up, and her waking thoughts merged into her inner voices. It was like that now, floating on the soft mattress where they had so joyfully made love before her size and bulk had made it impossible lately. Palaces and castles be damned, I will live and die at Wivenhoe, she was thinking. The room swam in dim light and sleep would come in an instant here. Maybe she was asleep already, but then she would not know the babe kicked at her from within. It had dropped so much lower now, that it must come soon. An heir for Wivenhoe to take the place of the rebel Humphrey who was stolen from sanctuary and hanged, or perhaps to make up for Staff’s father’s early death at Wivenhoe, here in this room.

The sharp creak scratched at her drifting mind and her eyes shot open. “Nance!” she heard herself say, and her heart quickened as though it knew something her mind could not. The door to the room stood ajar. But had not Nancy closed it? A floor board moaned near the bed. She sat bolt upright. She felt icy cold, but the day was warm, even sultry, and no breeze stirred through the closed curtains.

“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.”

She began to read from the parchment, “You see, Master Cromwell, the world sets little store by me and My Lord Stafford, and I have freely chosen to live a simple, honest life with him. Still, we do wish to regain the favor of the king and queen. For well I might have had a greater man of birth and a higher, but I assure you I could never have had one that loved me so well, nor a more honest man. I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest queen christened. And I believe verily he would not forsake me even to be a king.”

“I should like a copy of that, love,” came Staff’s voice behind her chair. “It is most beautiful and likely to be wasted on the silly ears at court.” He leaned over her chair and kissed her on the cheek. “George, you are welcome here to Wivenhoe. Did you come to see if you are an uncle again?”

They shook hands warmly, and Staff sat on the hearth bench near Mary’s chair. He had been working hard at something, for his hair was windblown and there was rich, dark mud on his boots. “Then you have a message?” Staff’s eyes bored into George’s wary ones.

“I think you are the sort of man with whom it is best to come straight to the point, Staff,” George ventured.

“And I think you will find that your sister is that sort of woman, George. Say on, but realize that anything which concerns Mary is now of utmost importance to me.”

“Yes, of course. I bear a request from father.”

“He could not come himself?” Mary asked sharply.

“Hush, love,” Staff said. “Do not goad George, for he is only the messenger, not Thomas Boleyn incarnate.”

“Things are as bad as I am sure Cromwell has told you,” George began slowly. “Anne does not conceive of another royal child, although the king has bedded her off and on all summer. He goes from mistress to mistress as he has long done, but father fears that he is increasingly under the influence of one lady and her rapacious family.”

“Jane Seymour still,” Mary thought aloud. “Does she still hold him off? Then it would seem she has taken her ambitions and tactics from the queen.”

“Exactly, Mary. That is exactly what father says. The Boleyns must hold the king, pull him from the Seymours until Anne bears the heir. Or, if she cannot, father fears Elizabeth will never get to the throne. It will be the bastard Fitzroy or...” His words hung in the air, and Mary feared as she had long ago learned to do when father sought her help. Staff and Mary said nothing and George cleared his throat.

“Sister, do you not remember how the king referred to you as the woman who bore live sons the day he discovered Anne was not really with child and they argued so terribly?”

“Yes. I remember. It was an awful scene. If this has to do with my son Harry, George, tell father to forget it. The king knows well, and has for some time, that the lad is not his flesh and blood.” She rose awkwardly to her feet. “Father’s secret trips to Hatfield to fill the boy’s head with dreams were quite wasted. Whatever he is thinking, the answer is no. No, no, no!”

Staff rose to stand beside her and rubbed her shoulders as if to tell her to keep calm. “I am fine, my lord, truly,” she assured him, but her voice quavered.

“I think you are wrong, sister,” George pressed on. “I have seen the boy a few months ago. He looks Tudor through and through.”

Mary took a step toward George, ignoring Staff’s gentle touch trying to push her back to her seat. “He is a Carey through and through! He resembles Will Carey!”

“Then that just goes to show how people can disagree over it, but not be certain, sister. The lad is tall and healthy and clever, and Fitzroy is skinny and often weakly. His Grace will leap at the chance to declare Harry his own, if only you will say so.”

“Mary,” Staff’s voice came low at her, but she could not stop the flow of feelings.

“I will not keep calm and be silent, my lord. I cannot!” She tried not to shout, but she could not control her voice. “Tell your father that Harry is William Carey’s son and would have been his heir if His Grace had not taken the boy’s lands and birthright and given them to his love Anne Boleyn and his henchman Cromwell.”

“Some believe he took the Carey possessions to show to the world that the boy was not Will Carey’s son, Mary,” George pursued doggedly.

“I have heard that argument before, and it is a lie. If father even suggests to the king that Harry is his son, I shall walk all the way to London if I must and deny it to the king’s face! Tell father that. Tell him that someday he should try to love someone when they can do him no service for his dreadful lust for Boleyn power! Tell him that he should go back to Hever, for our foolish mother loves him still, though how she does I can never fathom. Tell him...”

Staff’s arms were around her in the next moment, almost in the same instant in which she felt the first stabbing pain. It surely was the child, but she was so beside herself with anger and hurt that it could have been her mind playing tricks on her again.

Staff carefully picked her up in his arms when he saw the pain on her face. George stood by, clearly distraught as Staff carried her from the parlor and up the silent stairs.

“I saw the ghost. He touched me,” she said to Staff between the waves of pain. Staff shouted for Nancy from where he stood and bent over Mary, untying her long linen sleeves from her bodice. “Did you, sweetheart? Today? Where?”

She meant to answer and to tell him how warm and comforting the memory was, but a sharp pain swept her words away. Staff was removing her shoes and telling her how much he loved her when Nancy’s face appeared close over her. “Stephen has gone for the midwife, Lady Mary. I will not leave you.”

“Can we send for my mother, Staff?” Mary heard herself ask suddenly. “Send George away and tell him to bring mother.”

“I shall ask him, love, but I think he must return to court.” Concern was stamped on Staff’s strong features, and she gripped his hand tight in the next wave of pain. “We shall send Stephen to bring your mother for a visit after the child is born as we discussed, all right?”

“Father will not like her to come here to Wivenhoe, Staff.”

“Then your father be damned, my love. Lady Elizabeth will come.”

Nancy and Staff had her into a clean loose frock now, and she felt much better, and not so tired. But surely the Lord in Heaven would give her strength for this trial. She was no longer afraid.

“You do not fear to have the child here, do you, Mary?”

“Here at Wivenhoe, my lord? Of course not.”

“In this room, I mean. Did you think you saw the ghost in here?”

“How did you know, Staff? Did I tell you?”

“No, sweetheart. I guessed. Nancy said you were standing wildly in the hall, and when you told me you saw the ghost...”

“He opened the door and came in to see me when I was resting,” she interrupted his gentle question. “I heard him on the stairs and then he touched my back. Then I was not afraid any longer, Staff, and I am not afraid now.”

“That is fine, my love. That is as it should be.”

“Do you think I am dreaming or lying, Staff? Tell me you believe it!”

“Of course I believe it. Did I not tell you he would want a good look at my beautiful wife?”

She started to laugh at his tease, but the dark hands of pain descended on her again. She bit her lip to stop the scream. Then Nancy shooed Staff from the room as Mary began the hours of labor to bring forth a child for Wivenhoe.

A son was born nearly at midnight and they called him Andrew William as they had decided. They wanted the child to have his own freely given first name and not be named for someone in high position as were Henry and Catherine. William they gave as a middle name in remembrance of Staff’s dead father and for Staff’s own first name. Mary whispered the baby’s name over and over on her lips and wondered, as she finally fell asleep, if the watchful ghost would come to see his namesake. Staff was beside himself with joy and pride. Nancy told her later that he had even wept, and Stephen had been sent to fetch a whole keg of precious wine from the cellar in celebration.

The next midmorn, George came to see the child before he and his man set off on the road back to Greenwich. He looked nervous and bleary-eyed to Mary, as though he had not slept. “George, I am sorry you must be the bearer of news back to court, not only that I will have none of his nefarious plot to dupe His Grace into believing Harry is his, but that you are the one who will tell them that Staff and I have a son when one is desperately needed elsewhere.”

“Coward that I am, sister, I may lie low on that news until Cromwell tells someone, though Anne could hear it best from me perhaps. She needs me more and more now, Mary. I try to cushion her pain as best I can, but she gets wild sometimes and no one can stand her actions or the things she says.”

“Every woman needs a man to cushion her pain, George.” Mary reached out and took Staff’s hand.

“Jane rants and raves about the time I spend with Anne, of course. It is almost as though she were jealous, but I know that cannot be, since Anne is only my sister and not some paramour.”

“I resented Eleanor Carey once in much the same way. She and Will were somehow soulmates, and I resented that. I can understand Jane’s unease.”

She thought George meant to argue the point, but he suddenly blurted, “Forgive me for upsetting you so, sister. I fear it brought on the child.”

“No, George. All is well. The child came in his own time.”

George nodded and shuffled nervously to glance at the sleeping newborn babe again. “Well, there is no red hair on this one,” he observed foolishly, but Mary did not let the words upset her. “I will be on the road, then. Thank you, Staff and Mary, for your hospitality. It is wondrous quiet here at Wivenhoe. I am not sure how I would do here after a while.”

“It is that calm and quiet we love, George. Farewell.” She smiled weakly up at him.

George bent to kiss Mary’s cheek and shake Staff’s hand. Staff walked him out of the room and down the stairs. Their voices faded away and the room was suddenly silent again. No boards creaked and she began to doze.

Staff came back just as the babe started to fuss for nursing. He lifted the brown-haired mite into Mary’s arms and lay down carefully next to them. He watched while his son suckled greedily and Mary felt her love flow out to them both. When the child slept again, Staff said suddenly, “I wish to thank you again for our son, my love. Catherine is quite beside herself with joy, and it will be a battle to keep her from picking him up all the time. She wants to cuddle him like a doll.”

“And so do I, my love, though he is more—much more. My first love child, though the Lord above knows I cherish the other two also. But I would die for this one.”

“I pray that will never be a necessity, sweet, only that you change the toddling clothes, wipe the nose, and untangle the leading strings.”

“What else did George tell you in private after I made my dramatic exit, Staff?”

He reached over and lazily stroked her loose golden hair as he spoke quietly. “Your little cousin Madge Shelton is to marry Henry Norris, for one thing.”

“Anne never managed to be rid of Madge? She could not accomplish even that?”

“No, though His Grace beds no longer with the girl. As for the other gossip, there was not much to interest you.”

“What else did he say of the Boleyn fortunes and the queen, Staff? Please, I would know. I will worry less then, truly.”

“Remember you are here with me and safe, sweetheart, but things are bad and getting worse. Unless Anne can somehow conceive, the dire handwriting is on the royal wall.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the king is more desperate than ever for a son as you can guess from George’s little visit to us. If Anne can give him none, he will try to get one somewhere. As usual, your wily father reads the signs correctly when he thinks to pawn little Harry Carey off on His Grace. But the king wants a true heir, a legitimate son.”

“But if there is only Elizabeth, and the queen cannot bear him a son...what then?”

“It boggles the mind. The Boleyns have risen so high they can never really retreat, only somehow be pulled off the lofty perch.”

“Do you believe he would dare to divorce Anne as Catherine before her, claiming that their marriage is cursed for their dead children? No, Staff, he cannot. He would look most foolish after the ruination of the church and the killing of a raft of friends and advisors such as Sir Thomas More.”

“That is my reasoning exactly, sweet. Indeed, what can he do? It will be something calculated and desperate, I fear. Clever Anne sees it too. George said she came upon Jane Seymour perched on the king’s lap last week in the queen’s chambers and threw a raving fit for two days.”

The babe suddenly stirred fitfully in her arms, and Mary rocked and shushed him. “He senses the times are bad, Staff. And now his Aunt Anne will hate him through no fault of his own, for she hates the mother who bore him even more.”

“You must not think so, lass. Anne cannot help herself.”

“I know. I know. I forgive her, but how I wish she could forgive me. I feel sad and guilty that I bear this beautiful child now when her whole life depends on a son.”

“You had best not feel guilty about my son, Mary, no matter what the times are like. Sweetheart, you must cease to be haunted like this for Anne or your father or the king. You are no longer their plaything but a woman of your own—and mine.”

She turned her face into his hand, which caressed her cheek as he spoke. She kissed his palm. “Are you saying I have ghosts in my head, Staff? Can you deny you carry much of the cruel past about with you? The rebellion? Your entrapment by the king all these years when you would rather have been here? Perhaps you only do not show your ghosts as much as I, my lord.”

He sighed and lowered his hand to stroke Andrew’s velvet cheek with one bent finger. “You are right, Lady Stafford. You know your lord quite well now, and I think you love him still.”

“Still, Lord Stafford? I love him more each day than I ever knew possible. But I would sleep now, too. Would you put your son back in his cradle?”

Staff stood and lifted the child carefully, the span of his two hands running the entire length of the babe’s body. He put him in the cradle and covered him. “I had best go down and see how the reeve is doing with his accounts, love,” he said leaning over her on the bed. “Will you sleep well here alone?”

“Of course. But I am not alone even when you are not here. There is Andrew and the other. I am not afraid here, Staff. I think it is rather my favorite room.”

He kissed her lingeringly on the lips and straightened. “That is good to hear, madam, for one way or the other, you had better plan on spending a lot of time right where you are now.” He grinned and left the door ajar behind him.

She smiled at his familiar impudence. Yes, she was thrilled with the child, guilt over Anne or not, for her sister may be now lost to her forever. But she was so tired and she must sleep before the babe woke again to demand feeding. If she heard the stairs creak she would not fear at Wivenhoe for the atmosphere was free and good. If only she could smother her desperate thoughts, then only outside the sanctuary of the manor and Staff’s encircling love would there be real ghosts to fear.