Betrayal in the Tudor Court (47 page)

Meantime, Mirabella remained weak. She slept often and ate little. What remained the most shocking of all to both Cecily and Grace was that Mirabella did not pray. Not ever. She had not once utilised the prie-dieu for private worship that Cecily made certain had not been taken from her rooms, nor her other Romish accoutrements Mirabella had used for private worship. Cecily would not disrespect Mirabella’s faith. She would strive as ever to be gracious and merciful in the hopes she would receive such in turn.

Winter began to ebb with the last vestiges of February. And as March gave way to the crisp days of April, Sumerton finally received news from London in the form of a dispatch for Mirabella from Alec.

“So?” Grace prodded at last. She could not be as patient as Cecily and would not try. What made them such a wonderful pair was their differences; Cecily was a willow to her oak—despite this, both could bend with the breeze.

Mirabella, abed as she was much of the time, scanned the letter. “He’s shut the home on the Strand and has been appointed apartments at Lambeth Palace,” she reported. She read further, biting her lip, then discarded the letter to her side. She tipped her head toward the black velvet canopy above, drawing in a sharp breath. “Our marriage has been dissolved by sanction of His Majesty and His Grace Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury.” The words were spoken with no feeling whatever, as if she were reading some text that was too dry to infuse any inflection in. Grace searched her face for any signs of emotion, finding none.

“And,” Mirabella added as she expelled a heavy sigh, “Master Cahill is to be knighted for his devoted service to the Church of England ‘despite all obstacles that would otherwise obstruct a lesser man’.” She shook her head. “ ‘Obstacles’ meaning me, I am certain.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Grace regarded Cecily a moment, whose eyes revealed a melding of pity and hope. She returned her gaze to Mirabella.

“Well, then,” Grace said at last. “All is as it should be, Mirabella. Isn’t it?” Her tone was not unkind.

Mirabella blinked several times, averting her head. She took in a few gasping breaths before giving herself to sobbing. Grace took her hand in hers, making soft cooing sounds. It would be a cold human being indeed, she thought, who could not be stirred to some form of compassion for this misguided creature.

“Yes,” Mirabella said through her tears. “All is as it should be.” She raised her head to meet Cecily’s eyes. “I am now unmarried and with child.”

For a moment all were stunned into silence. Grace looked from one woman to the other. Mirabella’s face was contorted in pain, as if making an appeal she could not put into words. Emotions washed over Cecily’s countenance so fast Grace was unable to discern them. Shock, anger, hurt, disbelief, to shock again. Cecily shook her head, rising from the bedside. She parted her mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut once more with another frantic shake of her head before whirling on her heel and fleeing the room.

Mirabella covered her eyes with her hand, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

Grace sighed. “And to think I never likened you to the Blessed Virgin before” was all she could think of to say.

Mirabella’s eyes darkened with anger. “You are enjoying this,” she seethed.

Grace pursed her lips, resting her chin on her folded hands. “No, my dear, I am not. Though I do find irony to be amusingly tyrannical,” she added with a slight laugh. “Forgive my impetuousness, Mirabella, but I must ask—is it true?”

Tears streamed down Mirabella’s cheeks unchecked. “I would give anything to say it was a lie. You must believe that I came to set things right. But I am too late, like all my life, too late.” She dissolved into sobs once more.

Grace drew in a breath. She did not know whether to comfort or chastise the woman who had caused nothing but turmoil the majority of her life.

“Mirabella,” she said in soft tones, reaching out to rub her knee. “For many years I raised you as my own,” she began, her heart pounding. She had never anticipated such a conversation but knew she could evade the words no longer. “I wanted to love you as a mother would. I blame myself for maintaining the charade when I knew I was unable to look upon you without resentment for what passed before between your father and Sister Julia. You were always a challenge for me, but many of those challenges I imposed on us. I fear my neglect and inability to love you as I should have at the time caused this relentless drive in you to pursue your cause with impure motives. The quest for God should be a joyous one, but for you it was always one of desperation.”

Mirabella averted her head, sobbing harder.

“If you had been loved and petted as you deserved to be, perhaps that quest would have been undertaken in the right spirit,” Grace went on. “Or perhaps not at all. Who’s to say what choices would have or should have been made when we find ourselves at the crossroads of What If …” She trailed off, reflecting on her own choices and where they led her. She swallowed a painful onset of tears. “Mirabella, wrongs can never be made right, but that doesn’t mean we cannot do right
now
. For my part, I am here now and I will be here for you as long as you need me.”

“Oh … oh,
Mother
! ” Mirabella cried, throwing herself forward into Grace’s arms.

Grace held her tight, swaying from side to side. “My dear girl,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

“That is all that is left to us,” Mirabella whimpered into her shoulder. “Regrets and remorse.”

Grace pulled away, cupping Mirabella’s face between her hands. “And forgiveness. This is where it starts, Mirabella, in the midst of sorrow. This is where we begin to let go.”

Mirabella regarded her a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“
Forgive … let go
,” she whispered. “I … have heard those words before.”

She nuzzled against Grace’s shoulder once more. As Grace stroked her hair she wondered if those things could ever be attained at Sumerton.

Cecily stood in the mausoleum alone. She gazed upon the stone effigies of Brey, so young and innocent even in his stone rendering, and of baby Charles, too young for his features to even be captured with accuracy, left to be remembered as any baby, a generality, more of an idea than a life. An effigy of Grace was there, too. Hal had commissioned it when he awaited the recovery of a body that would never be found, not in the way anyone could have ever anticipated. …

And Hal, her husband, her first love. In stone his countenance was captured, its kindness, its consistent ability to forgive, to love. Cecily rushed toward the effigy, throwing herself atop its cool stone chest and sobbing as she stroked its face.

“I am lost, Hal,” she confessed. Her voice echoed a lonely remembrance in the darkened room. “I have sinned against you, God knows. You know. But I have endeavoured to live right, to honour your memory in my decisions with the children and myself, and even Mirabella and Alec. But now … now … please do not ask this of me. Please let her be lying. If it is true then it stands to mock everything we ever held dear and constant. Everything will change, even my memories!”

She raised her head to regard the face as if it would somehow answer her. It remained unchanged.

“The dead are our only constants,” she observed, her voice laden with sadness. “In a world that just keeps moving.” She sighed. “Until I join that realm of constancy, I have but to move with it. Lend me your strength, Hal. Lend me your ability to keep loving and forgiving, no matter the sin. Please.” She squeezed her eyes shut a long moment, willing the prayer to him with all her strength.

Then she rose. And kept moving.

Cecily returned to find Grace waiting for her in the bower. She opened her arms and Cecily fled to them, her tears renewed. When she recovered herself, she pulled away.

“It is true, then,” she said, steeling herself for the answer that was in Grace’s nod.

“It is,” Grace said. “And conceived out of another deception, as with anything else in Mirabella’s imagining. She infused his wine with some country concoction to dull his senses, thinking consummating the marriage would hold him. Her punishment is the realisation that nothing could hold him. Nothing but God … and you, of course.”

Cecily bowed her head. The story revealed no surprises to her. Indeed, she found a strange sense of relief in the fact that Alec had not gone to Mirabella of his own free will, for what little comfort that could provide. She wondered what this portended, for nothing could bond a man and woman like a child, even if the bond was not a loving one. It was nonetheless two people tied, made one. Alec and Mirabella … She bit her lip, shaking her head against the thoughts that played before her mind’s eye against her will. She must resist. She must not think of them … that way. She never imagined she would have to.

“What are we going to do?” she asked in a whisper, taking Grace’s hand in hers as if the woman held the answer to every mystery of life.

“We are going to end the deceptions once and for all,” Grace told her, her voice firm with resolve. “We are going to summon Alec Cahill home to Sumerton. And Mirabella is going to tell him the truth.”

A novel concept
, Cecily thought, her gut churning in a compound of jealousy and bitterness she longed to ignore. She drew in a shaky breath. “You have sent the summons already, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Grace admitted, wrapping her arm about Cecily’s shoulders and drawing her near. “Because it’s going to end now, all the lies and all the pain. It’s going to end because that is the only way life can begin again.”

Cecily squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of more tears. What had she ever done but begin again? Was not her life the constant transition between beginnings and endings? Her lips twisted into a wry smile. Perhaps that in itself was the constancy she had thought belonged only to the dead.

There was nothing to do but wait, yet another reliability that had accompanied Cecily throughout her life. Now it was to wait for the little one who held everyone’s hopes and fears as one, and, always, always, for Alec.

The response from London was without delay.

“No?” Cecily asked the messenger, her eyes widening with bewilderment.

The messenger offered an apologetic shake of his head. “That was all he said, my lady. Just ‘no’. ”

“He did not even send a handwritten message with you?” Cecily asked, assessing the young man from head to foot as if she could detect a hidden note on his person.

Again, he shook his head, shrugging. “No, my lady. I am sorry.”

Cecily sighed. Her shoulders ached. Her feet ached. She mopped her brow with her handkerchief and sighed. “Go to the kitchens, son,” she told him. “At least be fed for your efforts.”

The messenger’s eyes sparkled at the notion. “My thanks to you, my lady!” he exclaimed as he retreated.

At least someone still finds happiness in simple things
, Cecily reflected, her heart constricting as she made for Mirabella’s chambers; Mirabella rarely left them. If the legitimacy of her pregnancy had been in question, it was no longer. Despite that it was too soon for the quickening, Mirabella retched daily and took to her bed, exhausted more often than not. To Cecily’s good fortune, Grace stayed with Mirabella much of the time. Cecily as yet was unable to remain in Mirabella’s company for any period of length and kept the running of her household and tending of her tenants in the foreground, distracting herself from before sunrise till after dark, when she at last took to her bed. Her solace was found in her work and her sleep; she invested her whole self in both.

Longing for her bed now, she forced herself to enter Mirabella’s suite, finding Grace as always sitting sentinel at her side as the two sewed.

Cecily closed her eyes a moment. Baby garments. They were sewing baby garments. She shook her head. How could she resent this? Had not she passed time in the same manner as she anticipated the births of her own children? Why should waiting for the birth of Mirabella’s child be spent differently? The child would need clothing, after all. Cecily sighed, exasperated with herself.

“Master Cahill sent word through his messenger,” Cecily announced. “And said no. He is not coming back.”

Mirabella’s expression yielded a fusion of relief and despair.

Grace pursed her lips. “Well,” she began in soft tones. “I do not think it appropriate to convey this news in a dispatch. We must find another way to bring him home.”

Mirabella shook her head. “We have time. Perhaps we should just wait it out.”

“Perhaps we should,” Cecily agreed, shocked to share any form of consensus with Mirabella. Both seemed of the same will when it came to avoiding Alec’s reaction to this newest happenstance.

Grace emitted a sigh. “No. He deserves the same amount of time as Mirabella to prepare himself. This is going to be fair, as fair as can be for something very unfair. No surprises, no lies, no deceit,” she reiterated once again. “Consider this our chance for redemption.”

Mirabella lowered her eyes. She drew in a breath as she cast her eyes to the bedside table on which the sandglass from Cecily stood.

“We may have no choice but to convey it somehow,” Mirabella said as she reached a hand out to trace the etchings of the various dates in the mahogany.

Cecily regarded her a long moment, reading her intent. It was not the worst idea, she conceded to herself a bit grudgingly.

“There is something else,” Mirabella said then. “Something else I want him to have.” She raised her eyes to Cecily. “Behind a loose stone in the garden wall by the yellow rosebush, the place where I used to sit with Master Reaves …” She blinked several times, averting her head. “Master Cahill’s papers are there. Please fetch them. Perhaps then he will know that … that I mean no harm.”

Cecily nodded to Grace, who quit the room to do Mirabella’s bidding.

Redemption indeed.

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