Her face transformed into a tapestry of sensitivity. Her eyes shimmering with a knowledge that was both deep and sultry. It was not about mistress and maid. It was a moment when Anne looked into the eyes of another woman who understood love for a man.
Helen held the letter up, beckoning her towards her chamber. The maid left the parchment on the bed as she removed her clothing, leaving her in only a chemise. Spring was well on its way to giving over to early summer so the air was warm. The fire kept the stone floor inviting for her bare feet. Helen removed the pins from her hair, brushing it out. But she didn’t braid it as she normally did.
“There now. That’s the way to read the letter. Just as ye would welcome him at night.”
Helen replaced the brush on the vanity. The two maids with her pulled the bed curtains to close the sides. Sitting on the foot of the bed, Anne fingered the seal. Helen sent the maids away, pausing to extinguish the candles. She left a single one burning on the vanity. Its yellow flame danced over the sheet of paper she had laid out on the writing desk. The quill sparkled in the candlelight, looking magical.
“Enjoy it, mistress, and make sure ye write him back. The carrier will leave at dawn.”
The chamber was left in deep quiet, the sort that allowed you to hear the crackle and pop of the wood as it caught fire. She heard the whistle of the wind outside the window. Anne still sat upright but Helen had tucked the coverlet around her.
The parchment crinkled as she broke the seal and opened it wide. The black ink danced across the page, in neat letters. She drank in the words, for the first time getting to know the man who had taken her from Warwickshire. They had never spoken of simple things. Brodick wrote of them now. Telling her about his likes and dislikes. That he preferred small beer to ale and heather to rosemary. The letter had many dates on it, like a diary. He would date the top of each entry, letting her know that he thought of her each night. Several drops of wax shone on the parchment, proving that he’d remained up past sunset to write to her.
The way they loved when together was exciting, their bodies creating heat and passion so hot it might even be explosive. But his letters were a different sort of intimacy. There was tenderness and trust as he shared things with her that were neither noble nor politically correct. They were often silly or whimsical. That endeared him more to her heart.
Crawling out of her cocoon, Anne went to the writing desk. It was as if he was there with her. As she dipped the quill into the ink, she felt the loneliness fade away for the first time since awaking to the news that he was gone. The sharp tip scraped softly against the paper as she returned it to the ink well over and over. She was careful to not smudge the drying ink, waiting to begin the next line until the candlelight no longer glistened in it. She did not care that it was a slow process. She lingered over her composition, savoring the next line. The candle burned lower as she began a second page, writing of small things just as he had, sharing who she was with him.
A tap on the door broke the mood. Helen held a tin lantern in one hand as she peeked in.
“I’m just finishing.”
Blowing on the last line, Anne made sure it was dry before folding the parchment to conceal what she had written. Holding the wax over the candle, she turned it round and round until it shimmered then pressed it firmly onto the place where the edges of parchment met. The heated portion puddled into a round glistening circle of wax. Anne pressed the seal firmly onto it, holding it still while the cool metal drew the heat out of the wax setting it.
When she pulled the brass seal up, it left a mold of the rampant lion in the scarlet wax.
“Thank you for waiting, Helen.”
“’Twas a pleasure.” She set the lantern down and went to the bed. Pulling the coverlet to one side, she waited for Anne to get back into bed. She went, enjoying the comforts because who knew when they might end. For tonight it was enough to simply enjoy.
Helen blew out the candle. She took the letter and left. The chamber was quiet and dark. But the babe inside her began to move. A tiny, soft motion like a flutter of butterfly wings inside her belly. Her breath froze in her lungs and the movement came again, confirming that she was not dreaming it. Laying a hand over her slightly thickened waistline, she cradled their child.
It would be born in love even if she had to see Mary cradling it. Many mothers gave up as much for their children. Tears fell onto the pillow as she refused to lament the ache in her heart. She would not repent for loving. Even if it broke her heart. To love was to taste life for the first time.
But her babe needed more than that. Her life was an example of what happened when you tried to pit love against the way the world was organized. Mary was the rightful mistress of Sterling. If Anne confessed to Brodick, she might remain as his leman, but her children would lead the same life she had when Mary was found out and was forced to take her position as wife.