“What would Henry say?”
“I shall tell my brother that we cannot afford to live at Court. He will know why.”
“We were fortunate to escape his anger. When I think of what we did … I tremble still.”
“Did I not tell you that all would be well? I know Henry. We shall see him often. He will insist on our coming to Court, so we shall not be entirely cut off. It would not surprise me if he traveled to Westhorpe to see us.”
“To entertain the Court would be costly.”
“Never fear, Charles. I shall make Henry understand how poor we are. And there is something I wish to ask you, Charles. You have two daughters.”
“Yes; Anne and Mary.”
“They should live with their father.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I am their mother now,” she went on. “Indeed I must be pregnant for I have a great longing for a large family. Yes, Charles, I want to leave Court. I am tired of all the masques and balls. I never want to disguise myself as an Egyptian or a Greek again. I never want to stand on the floor of the ballroom listening to the gasps of amazement when we unmask. I am tired of flattery and deception. I want to be in the country; I want to visit the poor and the sick and the sorry. I want to make them laugh and to show them that the world is a wonderful place. That’s what I want, Charles, with you and my large family of children growing up round me. What are you thinking? You look solemn.”
“I was thinking that you are a woman who has always achieved what she desired.”
She laughed. “This is the good life,” she said.
“And we are in our prime to enjoy it.”
“Well, Charles, I shall always be in my prime while you are beside me to love me.”
Then she embraced him, and laughing, talked of the baby which she was sure she would soon be holding in her arms. She was certain of her happiness; the only thing she was not sure of was the child’s sex; and that was a matter of indifference to her.
“Your thoughts run on too far,” Charles told her. “You are not even sure that you are pregnant.”
“And if I am not, I surely soon shall be,” she retorted. “And when I go to the country I want all my children there. Your two girls and my own little one. A large family you will admit, considering I have been married barely two months.”
“You can always be trusted to do everything on a grand scale.”
“And the girls will come to Westhorpe?”
“If that is what you wish.”
He then told her how he had rescued a child from the river and was bringing her up with his daughters.
She listened with shining eyes. “So I have three daughters already. I would that it were time for my own little one to be born.”
It was impossible, living with her, not to share her zest, her love of life.
The Family at Westhorpe
HENRY CAME to the Suffolks’ London residence in Bath Place, and went at once to his sister’s bedchamber, where he found her lying back on her pillows, flushed and triumphant, looking as though the ordeal had meant little to her. Her blue eyes sparkled although there were lines of exhaustion about them and her golden hair fell in a tangle of curls about her shoulders.
Henry came to the bed and stood looking down at her.
“Well done, sister.”
“Oh, Henry, beloved brother, it adds to my joy that you should come to my bedside.”
“Certainly I came. You’ve acquitted yourself with honors. Suffolk’s a lucky man.”
She called to her woman to bring the baby to the King, and as Henry held the child in his arms his face darkened.
“He looks to be a bonny boy,” he said; and watching her brother, Mary read his thoughts. Why should others have bonny boys when he could not?
Poor Henry. Katharine had at last given birth to a healthy child, but it was unfortunate that it had to be a girl. Katharine adored the little Princess Mary who had recently come into the world and the King was fond of her too, yet he could not hide his chagrin that after all their efforts they had failed to get a boy.
“They tell me he has the look of a Tudor already,” Mary said. “Some say they see you in him.”
“Is that so?” Henry’s scowl was replaced by a smile as he peered into the baby’s face.
“In any case,” Mary went on, “we have decided to call him after his uncle. That is if you raise no objection, brother.”
“Ha!” cried the King. “Young Henry seems to have a fancy for his uncle. See! He is smiling at me.”
He would not relinquish the child to his nurse but walked up and down the chamber holding him. The look of sorrow had come back into his face. Lately his thoughts had been more and more occupied with the desire for a son.
In the hall of the mansion in Bath Place stood gentlemen holding lighted torches which
