The Lady and the Duke

Part IV

It was dusk when she recovered from her faint. There was a candle burning brightly on the oak table beside the bed, bathing the room in a flickering glow. The bed upon which she lay was small, but comfortable.

Mary sat up and gazed about the room. It was clean, at least. The walls were covered in tapestries of middling quality, and the floor had been strewn with fresh herbs and rushes. A stool and writing desk were set near the window. She could make little use of the writing desk, not having the skill, though the stool, at least, could be moved into the light for embroidery. There was also a wardrobe for her gowns and a pre dieu. Mary was relieved that the Lincolns were of the old faith; she stood, pulling her rosary from her pocket and setting it upon the miniscule altar.

She swayed slightly and caught hold of the chest to steady herself as the room spun about her. Her head pounded. As she sat back on the bed, a glint of gold caught her eye. Mary snatched her wedding ring up, aching with relief as she slid it back onto her finger. She held it up to the light, admiring it, before pressing it earnestly to her heart.

There was a knock at her chamber door. “Come in,” she called, her voice surprisingly steady.

The door flew open and a handsome, roguish man filled the frame, his expression unreadable.

Mary jumped to her feet and was about to sink into a curtsey, but Lincoln was across the room in two strides. He caught her around the waist and pulled the slender body to him. Mary was too taken aback to react as he bent his head and kissed her hard; it was unlike any kiss Edward had ever given her. It was forceful, demanding.

Part of her yearned to yield to him, to give herself entirely to this man, powerful in every respect; the other part of her felt an acute rush of guilt.

She pushed him away with all her strength, her breath coming in short gasps. Lincoln was amused to note her heaving chest, her cheeks glowing with passion. He would make her his. To this day, no woman had refused him, and this one would not be the first.

“My lord!” she cried, indignantly, “I am a grieving woman!”

“Hush, Mary,” he soothed, “I’ll wager your husband never made you feel this way.”

“That is irrelevant, Your Grace! He was... Edward... Edward was...”

“Edward was, beloved. I am. Do not resist me, kind lady, you will break my heart.”

“I... I...” Mary cast about for a neutral answer, her loyalty would not permit such betrayal of her gentle husband. She could not bear to think that she was no longer married to him.

Lincoln took a step backwards, smoothing his doublet, “anyhow, Lady Mary, I came to inform you that my son is hungry. My wife requests that you make haste to the nursery to commence your duties as soon as you feel well enough.”

“I am well enough, my Lord, I apologise for...”

“Quite alright, perfectly understandable,” Lincoln cut across her, “I shall inform the nursery that you are ready, they will send a maid down for you shortly. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” she dipped a little curtsey and straightened, keeping her gaze deliberately downcast until the Duke had made her a bow and swept from the room.

She dropped down heavily onto the bed, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of the encounter: brief, yet so intense. She had not yet been away from the shelter of home for a full day and already she felt like a dull little pebble in the centre of a fast-flowing river. The busy world of London was full of glamour and intrigues, and she was being drawn into it. Whether against her will or not, she couldn’t decide.

When Mary’s racing pulse had subsided a little, she stood and tried to refine her appearance, straightening her stomacher and hood and shaking the creases from her skirts. When she was satisfied, she drifted to the window. She felt sickened as she looked out onto a sea of brick and stone. There was not one tree or flower in sight. She knew London was like this, she had visited a handful of times, but the reality of living here, in this, for a year or more... she wouldn’t think about it. She turned from the window, breathing heavily.

The door was open; soft footsteps warned of someone’s approach. She tried to look serene as a buxom blonde appeared in her bedroom, soberly attired and with large, dark patches beneath her eyes; she gave a little nod by way of greeting, which Mary dutifully returned.

“Lady Mary?” the blonde enquired.

“Yes.”

“My name is Jane Ashford, I am in charge of our little Lord’s nursery. If you need anything you should come to me.”

“Thank you.”

“Come along, I’ll show you to his apartments.” She turned and strode brusquely towards the west wing of the palatial Lincoln House, leaving Mary almost running in her wake.

They moved in silence through a labyrinth of rooms and galleries, the quivering candle threatening to plunge them into near-darkness at any moment. Mary took in as much of the house as she could, there were rows and rows of ancestral portraits lining the walls, tapestries covering the floorboards and glass panes in every window. She tried to calculate the cost and gave up, realising that the wealth of the Lincolns must be second only to that of the King. She knew she ought to feel fortunate to be here.

A faint, heart-wrenching cry seemed to be coming from the floor above; sure enough, Jane Ashford led her up a spiral staircase and into the refurbished complex of rooms that comprised the nursery.

She was shown into the room where Henry Lincoln lay on his day bed, exercising his young lungs. Even whilst screaming, he looked like a little angel to Mary. His tiny hands were clenched, and the waving feet were perfectly formed. A cloud of downy blonde hair poked out from his cap. She loved him from the first glance.

As she settled into the nursing chair and took the scrap of life into her arms, she felt a violent pining for her own little boy. She put the warm, vital creature to her breast, almost crying with relief and longing. She could barely distinguish this Henry from her own young Edward, both so perfect, so vibrant, so strong, and so desperately fragile.

When he had drunk his fill, Mary reluctantly handed Edward back to Jane Ashford and redressed herself.

When Henry was settled, Jane led Mary back to her room. Mary moved as though floating, barely noticing her surroundings on the return.

Jane stopped at the end of the gallery that would lead to Mary’s room, “I trust you can find your way from here?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Are you in need of anything?”

“No, thank you. The Duke said...”

Jane’s abrupt facade visibly softened at the mention of the Duke, her voice was almost friendly as she interrupted, “the Duke is very kind, but far too busy to see to the needs of his servants. If you need anything, you ought come to me.”   

Mary smiled inwardly as she realised that the Duke had won Jane over too. “I understand, good night,” she gave a courteous little bob in reply to Jane’s sharp nod as she turned on her heel and disappeared into the darkness. Mary wavered a moment in the unfamiliar gloom before tentatively beginning to make her way towards the glimmer of light in the distance, the candle shining from her still-open door.

The bedroom looked friendly and inviting as she made her way in and firmly closed the door. The chest of her belongings had been left at the foot of the bed; she rummaged for her nightclothes and said her prayers in something of a daze, before falling into the bed and sliding into a confused, tumultuous sleep.