Jenny helps me, my limbs trembling so violently that she half carries me across the room and supports me on the close stool. The piss pours forth in such a gush that it sounds like a horse in a stream. The relief is immense. She pulls down my gown and helps me back to bed, and with eyes full of fear puts a hand to my brow. “Are you better, Mistress Anne? Shall I fetch your mother? She has been in bed but an hour.”
I shake my head a nd a tear slides from the corner of my eye to fall upon the pillow. I am as weak and pathetic as an infant and there is a great pain within my breast that makes breathing hard. She brings the cup again and again, feeding the insatiable thirst that will never be broken, and I drink deep.
A letter comes from Henry, written in his own hand. I am still so weak that Jenny has to break the seal so I might read it.
THERE came to me suddenly in the night the most afflifting news that could have arrived. The first, to hear of the sickness of my mistress, whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do my own, so that I would gladly bear half your illness to make you well. The second, from the fear that I have of being still longer harassed by my enemy, Absence, much longer, who has hitherto given me all possible uneasiness, and as far as I can judge is determined to spite me more because I pray God to rid me of this troublesome tormentor. The third, because the physician in whom I have most confidence, is absent at the very time when he might do me the greatest pleasure; for I should hope, by him and his means, to obtain one of my chief joys on earth that is the care of my mistress yet for want of him I send you my second, and hope that he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. In so doing I hope soon to see you again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.
Written by that secretary, who is, and for ever will be, your loyal and most assured Servant,
Henry has signed it with our entwined initials. I kiss it, hold it briefly to my breast, relieved and reassured that I am not yet replaced in his affections. His fear and longing are evident in every stroke of his pen. Mind you, I think, glancing in the mirror, if he could see me now so peaked and wan -looking, I am not sure his heart would still be mine.
It is but a week since I lay so close to death, and I am still a long way from full recovery. The household is silent, the servants creeping as they go about their tasks, for George and Father have also fallen sick. We were glad to have Dr Butts so conveniently near, and thanks to his ministrations Father and George are past the worst and growing daily in strength, as I do. Though yesterday came news that poor Will Carey had not the strength to withstand it and has given up the fight, leaving Mary widowed.
I wonder what she will do now. The lodging she shared with Will at Greenwich will now be forfeit, her only income the rents from Will’s Essex manor and an annuity from Tynemouth Priory. Without a penny of her own, Mary will now be in a sorry state.
“Father will surely bring her and the children home,” I say to George as we sit together in the late June sunshine.
M y brother is not so sure. “I doubt it very much. Our sister has done little to gain Father’s approval. I fear Mary is on her own.”
“If that is the case, I shall speak to the king. Mary may be wilful but she is still our sister, surely she has learned her lesson.”
George shrugs and tugs the blanket higher about his chest. We are both still frail since the sickness and the summer breeze is sometimes a little too brisk.
“If you think it wise to draw his attention back to Mary, then do so by all means. There is no harm in her, she is just … erm … easily persuaded.”
A robin red-breast perches on the garden wall, cocking his beady eye, looking for crumbs . I
I shake my head a nd a tear slides from the corner of my eye to fall upon the pillow. I am as weak and pathetic as an infant and there is a great pain within my breast that makes breathing hard. She brings the cup again and again, feeding the insatiable thirst that will never be broken, and I drink deep.
A letter comes from Henry, written in his own hand. I am still so weak that Jenny has to break the seal so I might read it.
THERE came to me suddenly in the night the most afflifting news that could have arrived. The first, to hear of the sickness of my mistress, whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do my own, so that I would gladly bear half your illness to make you well. The second, from the fear that I have of being still longer harassed by my enemy, Absence, much longer, who has hitherto given me all possible uneasiness, and as far as I can judge is determined to spite me more because I pray God to rid me of this troublesome tormentor. The third, because the physician in whom I have most confidence, is absent at the very time when he might do me the greatest pleasure; for I should hope, by him and his means, to obtain one of my chief joys on earth that is the care of my mistress yet for want of him I send you my second, and hope that he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. In so doing I hope soon to see you again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.
Written by that secretary, who is, and for ever will be, your loyal and most assured Servant,
Henry has signed it with our entwined initials. I kiss it, hold it briefly to my breast, relieved and reassured that I am not yet replaced in his affections. His fear and longing are evident in every stroke of his pen. Mind you, I think, glancing in the mirror, if he could see me now so peaked and wan -looking, I am not sure his heart would still be mine.
It is but a week since I lay so close to death, and I am still a long way from full recovery. The household is silent, the servants creeping as they go about their tasks, for George and Father have also fallen sick. We were glad to have Dr Butts so conveniently near, and thanks to his ministrations Father and George are past the worst and growing daily in strength, as I do. Though yesterday came news that poor Will Carey had not the strength to withstand it and has given up the fight, leaving Mary widowed.
I wonder what she will do now. The lodging she shared with Will at Greenwich will now be forfeit, her only income the rents from Will’s Essex manor and an annuity from Tynemouth Priory. Without a penny of her own, Mary will now be in a sorry state.
“Father will surely bring her and the children home,” I say to George as we sit together in the late June sunshine.
M y brother is not so sure. “I doubt it very much. Our sister has done little to gain Father’s approval. I fear Mary is on her own.”
“If that is the case, I shall speak to the king. Mary may be wilful but she is still our sister, surely she has learned her lesson.”
George shrugs and tugs the blanket higher about his chest. We are both still frail since the sickness and the summer breeze is sometimes a little too brisk.
“If you think it wise to draw his attention back to Mary, then do so by all means. There is no harm in her, she is just … erm … easily persuaded.”
A robin red-breast perches on the garden wall, cocking his beady eye, looking for crumbs . I
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