The wedding was over in a matter of minutes. It takes longer to go to confession than it did their ceremony. How pitiful is that? She heard women talk about how their wedding is the happiest day of their lives. In truth, it should be, but for her, it feels hollow. This is because she has no one to share the joyous occasion with. If times were different she would be wed to a prince about to embark on the journey of ruling a country. There would also be a grand celebration.
Instead, she is wed to a Duke, with no celebration. No flowery poems read for her about love. No one to throw coins to. No heralding announcement. No dowry to give her husband. Nothing. But the fact remains they are now husband and wife. Letting out a deep breath, Mary comported her emotions into herself. It's what she does. It is how she has learned to survive. Hiding one's feelings is not the easiest thing to do, but sometimes it's the only thing to do.
She departed the chapel the same way she entered, on the arm of His Grace. Now her Lord Husband. With a smile on her face, she ushered her husband into the main room of the castle. Letting go of his arm, she turned to him. "Your Grace—-"
"Charles. We are now married. Please call me Charles," he shared with her.
Giving him an agreeable look, she tested the use of his given name on her tongue. "In that case, Charles please call me Mary." She clasped her hands, in order to not feel awkward. But she must get these questions out. "Charles, will I be allowed to retain my two ladies in waiting? What will happen to my governess, Margaret Pole? And finally when are we to leave?"
His wife asks hard questions, with answers that he does not want to break her spirit from. "We need to be leaving shortly, as it will take a long time to travel back to Suffolk. I hope you have had time to pack what you need. As for your governess, she will be stationed at her own home. But fear not, you can write to her and visit even. Your ladies have been invited to stay with you. However, I received a written notice from Lady Margaret Douglas's father. She will be returning to him, to serve elsewhere. Lady Dorothy will remain with you. She will be riding in the second carriage with your belongings and her own."
He saw her face turn down. It is apparent she is disappointed. He takes no pleasure in speaking bad news, especially to family which she is now. Then he watched her face change into steeled resolve. The resemblance to her mother, in that regard, is impressive. If it had been his late wife, she would be throwing a fit as well as throwing things at him. It makes him wonder where she is hiding that Tudor temper. But one thing is clear, she is not her father's princess. She is her mother's heroine.
She did not know this. There was no knowledge given that Marge would not be joining her. The lady did not mention any word of it. This is why she does not let herself get attached to people. They always leave in the end. Fixing her gaze on him, she stated "Thank you for informing me of these things. I did not know Lady Douglas would be departing, but I understand the reasoning. I did not have much time to pack. I found out I was to marry just yesterday with a letter delivered by His Majesty's royal rider. I do have my trunks prepared, though. I would like to say goodbye first and then I will be ready to depart."
His brows knitted together. She was only told the day before about their wedding? His strong jaw clenched, only her father would be so careless as to do such a thing. It is not surprising though, given the king's treatment of her. He is now sure of one thing. She was a child forced to grow up and he is a man acting like a child. He bid her go and turned to talk with Chapuys, who entered the room as Mary left.
"Your Grace, what a charming ceremony to Her Highness Lady Mary," Eustace greeted. He threw her title in there to remind the man of just who it is he married.
Leave it Chapuys to humble him. "Thank you, Ambassador. The service may not have been long, but the meaning is what matters. Her Highness, my Lady Wife, is the one who is charming." His eyes glinted with amusement.
"Indeed. On behalf of her mother, The Queen, I thank you for allowing me to be present. I was able to send Lady Mary her mother's blessings," the Ambassador shared.
The Queen... his mother-in-law. Charles winced at the thought of it. If he dwelled there long enough then his nerves would cave in. Instead, he centered on the injustice of her situation. "How is Her Majesty?"
"As well as can be expected for one set aside. Her heart is broken, not only for her marriage but for her daughter. She has not seen her only child in months. You have no idea what that has done to her. But she keeps on in the fight." Chapuys bowed his head in disgust. Then he mentioned "You must know I did not say anything to Lady Mary about the progression of the situation. There is no need to ruin one's wedding day with news they are to be branded a bastard and parents divorced, with her father lying in wait to wed his whore."
His Grace crossed his arms. "I cannot fault you for that." And he will not either. If there is one thing Charles is all too familiar with it is cleaning up the King's messes. It will fall to him to tell Mary the unfortunate news. That should be a delightful conversation to have.
At the sound of feminine talking the two men stood up straighter. Charles noticed his wife holding a basket. She looked at him and nodded. He smiled back and began walking her way. Taking the basket, he placed a hand on the small of her back.
"I am ready My Lord," she informed him. After more hugs and a few tears, she is now ready to trade her castle for a manor home. The pair of them strode to the castle entrance. She turned her head a final time and took in the sight of these old walls, her governess (who gave her a soft but sad smile), Lady Marge, and the other stewards. Her hand lifted and waved. With her head held high, she exited with her husband.
Her mind was awash with memories, thoughts, and hopes. So much so that she did not even realize he had helped her into the carriage. But he had. She arranged the skirt of her dress comfortably around her and waited for Charles to enter with the basket. The anticipation of the ride is killing her.
As he noted it is a long way from Shropshire to Suffolk. If they leave now, they will be lucky to arrive by dawn barring any unforeseen circumstances. Goodness, what will they talk about on the way? There are many things to discuss but not knowing what they would is discomforting. She fiddled with her wedding ring while she waited. The ring is gold with a salt and pepper effect of a large white diamond circled with black ones around it. It is stunning and unique, perhaps a little like her husband.
He entered the carriage with two baskets. One he passed to his wife and the other he sat on the seat in front of them. Giving word to the driver, they were off. Looking at his wife, he saw her biting her lip and noticed watery eyes. "You know you can cry. It's just us in here. I will not tell a soul or think any less of you."
In trying to hide her emotions she forgot that her eyes speak too. A few tears broke through her armor. No one ever said change is easy. A handkerchief was given to her. She dabbed her eyes with it. "Thank you," she whispered with a strangled voice. Her fingers began running over it until she felt his hand on hers.
It's a strange thing, a hand. Hands can hurt and hands can heal. Hands can touch and they can grab. They are young and they are old. Bony, ugly, dainty, aristocratic, smooth, and wrinkled. But no matter the state, if one's hands are full they cannot grasp for anything new. So the best hands are those that are empty until they are not. Which hers, right now, are no longer empty. They are full of her husband's.
Nothing beats the comfort and security of having someone just hold your hand. She has not had that in a long time. It made the tears fall again. This whole day has her flummoxed. This man makes her feel the same. Who is he, her husband? Who is he that he would marry her without a dowry, without nothing to gain? No land, no titles, no money, nothing. Why would he do this?
It must be a pity. Pity. She laughs at pity. She has learned these eighteen years you can be either pitiful or powerful. But you cannot be both at the same time. So no, she does not need pity. She needs patience.
Patience to learn this man. To learn this new position she is in of wife. To find out what makes him happy, so maybe he will not leave or send her away. As she sat staring at his hand, inspecting it, feeling its callous nature, she thought of something. "When I was little you comforted me after I had behaved naughty by pushing the Dauphin of France. I thanked you then and I thank you now for the same comfort." Her thumb ran over his knuckles.
How does she expect him to concentrate with her thumb making him feel wound up? How is it her thumb can do that to him? This close space is suffocating with need. But she need not know that either. Instead, "Oh yes. I remember that time. You were tiny, yet you knocked him over. You had a lively spirited nature in you. There is no need for thanks. I wanted to comfort you then. I want to do it now and I hope I get to in the future as well."
He recalled something then. Pulling his affected hand away from hers, producing a blue silk pouch from his pocket. He spoke. "It's customary for the groom to give the bride a gift. I thought you might like this." The pouch was passed to her.
Her husband is giving her a gift? A gift, when she has given him nothing. The thought of no dowry shames her. Craning her head to him, with a doleful expression she let him know "Charles you do not have to give me anything. I have nothing to give you, not even a dowry. Please keep this." She handed the pouch back to him.
Refusing to take it, he transferred it back again to her lap. The fact she did not accept it straightaway makes him want to give it to her even more. "I want you to have it. Your first gift from your husband."
She nodded and smiled warmly. Her nimble fingers opened it and brought out a diamond and pearl necklace. It is a gorgeous piece. "This is perfect and so very thoughtful." A smile, a truly breathtaking smile, graced her face. The beautiful piece of jewelry is long enough to put on over her head, which she did, and placed the pouch on the seat between them. Then she took his hand, the very one she held and placed a kiss on top of it. She began to let go, but he held.
And my God, he wants to kiss her senseless. Her thoughtful manners, shy smiles, and innocent gestures make him admire her even more than he already does her beautiful face. He is used to women who use their considerable "charms" to get what they want. From him, they want sex, money, and prestige. Hardly anything to build a relationship on.
If he were honest, he has never had a relationship before. Never wanted it. Never had a need for it. Perhaps that was the problem in his first marriage, a lack of relationship. Fighting, arguing, drinking, and sex does not forge strong bonds, and deep emotional ties, which bring calm assurance knowing everything is alright. But now something stirs within him, something new that he has never felt before. He cannot put a name to it at present, but it makes him desire a connection with his new wife. A connection not based on money, prestige, or sex.
One that starts with sharing their true selves with each other. By being real and open. Then hopefully the coupling will follow. It is simple to take your clothes off and have relations. People do so every day. But opening up your soul, letting someone in and see your spirit, thoughts, fears, flaws, hopes, and dreams is a real raw nakedness. It is not so simple a thing. It is difficult and he fears doing so because it requires trust. Can he trust her, this woman he married?
Breaking himself out of this line of thinking, he inquired "So what is in that basket of yours?" He pointed to the one he carried for her, as they left the castle.
Releasing his hand, she grabbed it and set it on her lap. "Trivial items really." Upon opening it, she showed him each item inside. "A bunch of knitting needles, yarns of different color, threads, my thimble, my fancy shears." She stopped there and brought them out.
Her shears are "Impractical. Look at it. Have you ever seen a more ostentatious item in your life?" The shears are gold with rubies and diamonds covering the handles. "They are hardly practical for use and sometimes they get in my way."
He chuckled at her comments. Although, "I have to agree with you. They are pretty fancy. Where did you get them? Or should I say who gave them to you?"
Elegant fingers ran over the handles of the shears, tracing the jewels. "That is a story in itself. I think I was seven at the time. My Lady Aunt Methven, the Queen of Scotland, presented them to my father as a gift. Once the Queen left, from her visit, in a fit of disgust my father gave them to me. He said what need have I with scissors? They are a lady's tool. So I have had them ever since. They are the only ones I own." With care, she put the scissors back into the basket.
Charles delighted in hearing the story. It gives him a little more insight into her personality. Even though her father had no care for the item, she did. The way she treats it, with regard, it is obvious it means a lot to her.
"I have embroidery hoops too. I am trying to learn embroidery because I am not very good at it. But I think it could come in handy," she informed him. However, she did not bring the hoop out of the basket. It would be far too embarrassing.
Noticing she did not show him the embroidery, he decided to have a bit of fun with her. "My Lady you did not show me your embroidery. I would like to see it."
She huffed out a breath. "No. You would not. It's quite terrible." However, he insisted and she could tell he would be relentless in his pursuit of seeing it. She perceives his personality to be so. Before she allowed him to view her handiwork, she made him promise "Do not laugh. When I tell you it is bad, it is bad."
Angling his body towards her, he spoke with sincerity. "You have my word as the Duke, not to jest. As your husband, I cannot promise the same. For your husband enjoys good humor. But I do pledge not to tell others of your flaw."
"Just remember I warned you," she commented. Then reached in, albeit hesitant, and brought out the embroidery.
His eyes etched onto the embellished picture on the cloth. With a roguish grin, his gaze danced with mirth. He took the hoop and held it up to his face. On it lays her embroidery of... a flower? "This is rather interesting. Is it a flower?"
She sucked in a breath. "It is not a flower. It is in fact supposed to be a bird, a grouse specifically. I told you I am not the best embroiderer." Her hand took the hoop from his and hid it away in her container of items, as his laughter rang out.
"I am sorry but please refrain from embroidering our home." His laugh brought him to tears.
Narrowing her eyes at her husband, she noted "Just for that I am going to embroider all sorts of pillows and handkerchiefs for you." They both knew they were jesting with each other. A sheepish smile crossed her mouth.
Recomposing himself, he asked, "So you cannot embroider but what can you do?"
"I can sew, stitch, and mend. Though not as well as my mother, who would be ashamed at my embroidery skills. I can also play the harpsichord and the clavichord with fair decency. I sing, although to myself." Then she wondered if she should share with him one of her true passions. Her hand lingered on the side of the basket for a moment before she reached in and brought out a sweet-smelling cloth. Placing the container on the floor, she set the cloth in her lap. Her fingers played with the edge of the fabric.
When she spoke again it was with timidity. "I have never shared this with anyone, outside of Lady Dot." She opened the cloth and revealed the substance of the sweet smell. Three bars of soap lay there. "One thing that has brought me much enjoyment is creating bars of soap. I also make a hand cream softener, one for the body, as well as the lips. I know it sounds silly but the process of creating it is relaxing and enjoyable."
He picked one of the soaps up and brought it to his nose. It smells divine and looks appealing with rose petals mixed into it. Now he knew where her own sweet smell came from. His curiosity took over. "I feel certain other women would like these. Have you thought about sharing them?" He saw her eyes cast down as if she is hiding something.
Daring to look at him, she disclosed a secret. "Actually I have shared my soaps and creams with others. In the Shropshire marketplace, Lady Dot would take the products and sell them for profit." She saw his eyebrow raise. "But it's not what you think. I never kept the money for myself. Any money made would be sealed in an envelope with a letter. I give it to the orphanage in town, every bit of it. Whenever my booth is set up, the money always goes straight to there."
This astonished him. He knows of her reduced income, from the king. And also knew she had been living below her means, in spite of being a noble lady. Any money she obtained came from her cousin. To find out that she raised funds on her bath items is incredible. But to give the money away, and not keep it for herself when she has every right to, is even more remarkable. It shows her true character.
Putting the soap back onto the cloth, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. His blue eyes caught her own. "You are very kind, generous, and productive. Very few highborn ladies would do such a thing, especially royalty. You have my admiration and if you would like to continue you also have my blessing."
"Thank you," she uttered. Then took the soap, wrapped it again, and put it in the basket. In the process of putting it away, her book found itself in her husband's hands.
He inspected the back and the spine. Thinking it was a Bible or some book of Latin, he turned it to its cover. Very intrigued, by the subject, he questioned her. "Romantic poetry. You read this drivel? I would have thought you would be more interested in academic subjects." He opened to the place where her bookmark is. His eyes studied the page and began to read. "Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes. Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace."
She snatched the book from his hand before he could read anymore. It promptly returned to its home, for the journey, along with her other items. A smirk befell him. "Tell me, Mary, since you read romantic poetry, is that what you want— romance?" He awaited her answer with eager ears and a racing pulse.
Oh, she should have known he would ask something like that. She fixed her gaze on the silk of her green dress. If she looked at him she would die, she just knows it. "I would rather have love than romantic notions. Romance might be nice, but real love lasts longer. Besides what good is romance if there is no action on it? Take that poem you read from. It is written by Sir Philip Sidney. He is writing about a hopeless love that he feels for a woman he foolishly turned away from. Now he is lovesick." She began picking at the silk of her gown.
He did not know that. "So what you are saying is you would rather have a real relationship than mere words and deeds. But what if you could have both?"
Raising her eyes and meeting his head-on, she found her voice. "Then that would be all the better."
The tension in the air buzzed with energy about them. It is dazzling and overpowering. Breaking eye contact, he looked out the window. Her gaze heats his soul. "When we arrive at Westhrope Hall I will introduce you to my housekeeper, who was also my governess, Lady Ashdown. Then, because it will still be quite early in the morning, I thought we might lie in. I have had rooms prepared for you. My own is just down the hall from yours. Around mid-day, I will show you the estate. I hope that is acceptable."
He turned his head away from the window, to glance at her again, only to hear "That is more than acceptable. But why are we not sharing a room? Is that not what married couples do? Not that I would know. My own parents never shared a room."
She continues to throw him into stupidity and render him mute. This is not at all how he normally acts with women, with his usual swagger and smoothness of speech bearing witty comments and flirtatious words. His wife wants to share a room with him. It makes his heart speed up. "I did not want you to be uncomfortable, which is why I had rooms prepared for you. If you wish then we can share."
Despite a nervousness in her stomach, she admitted "Yes. I would like that. I think it would aid in getting to know each other more."
His eyes beamed and sparkled, his face shone with the most handsome smile ever. He took her hand and held it again, twining their fingers. Her heart holds many secrets inside her garden, and her walls are as high as any castle tower. But he is no stranger to battles and has knocked down many stone walls over the years, as a soldier to the king. He is determined to break through her courtesy because what he has seen from her so far he likes. There is a feeling in his heart that this is the beginning of something truly special.