It was a great delight to her to play the chatelaine; there was so much to learn, she explained to the governor of the household, and when one was brought up to be a Queen, one’s education was neglected in many other ways.
She insisted that her little son sleep in her chamber; and she herself often attended to him. She was delighted with the new life—so different from everything she had known before, so much more intimate, so much more domestic.
“I do not envy Kings and Queens,” she told Charles. “They see so little of their husbands and wives, they might as well not be married!”
Her contentment spread throughout the manor, and this was a very happy household.
But she was already planning for the future.
“Your daughters must come to Westhorpe, Charles, as we arranged,” she said. “Also the little one you rescued from the river. I hope young Henry will soon have a little brother or sister. I told you I want a large family.”
“Mary,” said Charles soberly, “you know Henry will soon be back at Greenwich.”
Her face clouded.
“You think he will command our return?”
“He said the Court was not the same when we were away.”
He saw the fear in her eyes, and he went on quickly: “At the moment you do not wish to leave Westhorpe, but when the novelty has gone you will grow a little tired of our home where nothing much happens.”
“Something happens all the time. I am happy here, and that is the best thing that could happen to anyone. I shall never grow tired of it. I don’t want to go to Court. I am afraid. …”
“Since when have
She put her arms about him and held him close to her.
“Since I had so much to lose,” she said.
“Why should you lose that which you treasure?”
“Treasures can be easily lost in my brother’s Court, Charles. I want to stay here forever … because here I feel safe.”
He understood. But he did not believe she would be allowed to have her wish this time.
It was a happy day for Westhorpe when the little girls arrived. Mary and Charles watched them from the battlements—three somewhat bewildered children, the eldest not more than six years old.
Mary’s heart was immediately touched as she watched them dismount from their ponies, when the eldest took the two younger ones by the hand as though she would defend them from all the perils that might be waiting for them.
“Come,” cried Mary. “Let us go down to them.”
She ran down the staircases to the courtyard, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being able to act without ceremony, and still found it one of the most enjoyable advantages of her new existence.
She went to the little girls, and kneeling, embraced the three of them at once.
“My dear little daughters, welcome home!” she cried.
Anne, the eldest, who was the spokeswoman of the party, had been rehearsing what she would say when she was confronted by her stepmother who, she had had impressed upon her, was a queen.
She tried to kneel and glanced sternly at the others to remind them of their duty.
“Your Highness,” she began.
Mary laughed.
“Call me your mother not Your Highness,” she said. “I think it is difficult for a mother to be a Highness. Now which is Mary and which the little water nymph?”
The smaller child, who had already seen Charles and could not take her eyes from him, was pushed forward by Anne.
“She was nearly drowned,” said Mary.
“But my father saved her,” added Anne.
Mary lifted up the child and kissed her. “And how glad I am that he did, my little nymph.”
“Nymph is not her name,” Anne protested.
“But it shall be my name for her,” replied Mary, who was delighted with this child because of her obvious devotion to Charles.
“You do not look like a queen,” said Anne. “You have no crown.”
“I did wear one … once,” Mary told them.
“And you have lost it?”
Mary nodded and the faces of the young children puckered with sympathy.
“But I am not sorry,” Mary went on quickly. “It was very heavy, and very uncomfortable to wear, so methinks I am happier without it.”
The three little faces showed incredulity.
