“Cromwell did a service to this country,” Lord Blackmore said while dabbing his chin. Well, one of them anyway. “If only the people could have seen that.”
Her father, Oliver Thompson, the Lord of Harlington, nodded and took his drink, “I agree. Even now, the Anglican Church needs to be purified of the influence of the Catholic heresies.”
Sighing into her food, Mary tried to remember the inside of a church but could not. The last time she believed she had set foot into an Anglican church had been over fifteen years ago when she was eight.
One morning, her father told them that he’d been given a vision from God who told him to separate himself and his family from the Anglican church. They had become puritans that same day and held worship at home. They prayed three times a day, and she was banned from being in the presence of boys until she was sixteen. The only respite she had was that they had allowed her to know how to ride.
Mary had been young and impressionable at that age, but as she grew, she began to despise her life. The few friends she had, she had met at church and with her father separating them from the one place where she could go to socialize with other girls her age, she’d been cut off. Slowly, she began to pray for freedom from this repression. She had hoped a good, handsome, kind husband would save her, but now…this man was far from what she had envisioned.
Closing her utensils, she hoped her drink would be somewhat palatable. She knew the wine was sweet but it felt bitter to her taste. She had to tell her parents that this man would not be her husband, that she would spend the rest of her life in an abbey if it came to that, but she was not going to marry this man.
Her father called for a servant to clear the plates away and put before them slices of pudding as their dessert. The small sweet cake with figs and molasses was her favorite, but she could not even summon the appetite to bite into it.
“Dear?” her mother asked, “Aren’t you hungry? This is your favorite pudding.”
“I’m rather full, Mother,” she lied. Disgusted really. “Please, pardon me.”
Again, they paused to bless this meal, and over the rim of her goblet, she watched her parents and Lord Blackmore eat. She knew that when this meal was over, her parents would give her and Lord Blackmore time to talk. She knew she had to beg off from that. She heard the tines of the fork clink on the plates with dread inside her.
She then pressed a hand to her head and sighed, looking up with deep sorrow in her eyes she said, “Father, I am not feeling well, may I be excused?”
Her mother’s sharp eyes shot to her with suspicion while her father’s had more pity. “Are you sure, Mary? We wanted you to speak with Lord Blackmore for a bit.”
“I suppose, I can try and hold out for a little while, but I really have a headache,” she said, while mentally begging God to forgive her for lying. She set her goblet down and smiled faintly.
“I won’t take much of your time, Miss Thompson,” the lord said while wiping his mouth. “I just need to tell you a few things. Where shall we go to, Harlington?”
Her father stood with a slight scrape of his chair, “The drawing room I think is best.”
Standing, she followed in step with her father and her soon-to-be husband. She must do something to stop this. She hoped her father had not given the man a definite yes on her hand.
They came to the drawing room that had a very austere look with simple chairs, a single carpet under the coffee table and a single piece of artwork on the wall, that of the Virgin Mary. Lord Blackmore sat on a curlicue chair, and Mary sat on the adjacent one with a carefully crafted notch resting between her chestnut brows.
Mary folded her hands on her blue dress as her father briefly rested his hand on her shoulder before he took his seat to supervise. It would have galled any other woman to be under such scrutiny, but Mary had grown immune to it. Her father was silent between this meeting but she felt his eyes on the back of her neck.
“Lord Blackmore?” she asked quietly. “Is something wrong?”
The man plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his face that was beading with sweat “I must say that I am overjoyed about this engagement, but though, I am eager to have your hand, I am told I must journey to London. Our wedding was to be in three days…”
Mary snapped her head to her father, her eyes wide and full of disbelief. How could her father do this? Was he going to wait until the very day to tell her she was going to be married? She sat quietly, but inside she was bristling. It was a miracle her hair was not standing up on end like wet cat’s. She kept her eyes from narrowing and her shoulders from stiffening but kept her eyes on the lord.
“…but I must be absent. Please pardon me for those few days.”
Mary bit her tongue and nodded, “You are pardoned, My Lord.”
Lord Blackmore dabbed his face once more, his dark beady eyes holding a tinge of nervousness. “And when we are wed…we will be moving to Chelmsford.”
Her eyes did pop at that time. Chelmsford! Halfway across England? This did not feel right.
“H…how long will you be gone?” she asked trying to cover the tremble in her voice.
“A week or possibly more depending on how it goes with parliament and the King,” the Lord replied. “Never
