by D. L. Bogdan
She cursed herself. She had known this feeling before. Envy. Raw and primal envy. Now that her calling to God had been denied her, her life was a void of uncertainty. She was young with no prospects and no identity. As a novitiate nun, her life was defined, laid out before her, predictable, neat. Now she was unsettled, afraid. Would she marry, then? Would she ever know the happiness of a family? What’s more, did she even want that? How could she so easily slip from one way of life to another? Did she owe it to God to remain chaste, alone in service to Him? Or was there another way to serve? Her chastity was bought at such a great price; would she mock her mother’s sacrifice to give it in marriage?
Mirabella settled in the solar before a cheery fire incongruent with her mood and reread the dispatch. She wondered if her father’s legitimate daughter would somehow usurp whatever rank she held in his heart, then chastised herself for the childishness of the thought.
“A visitor, mistress.” The voice of her steward cut her fancies short as Mirabella waved them in.
“Mistress Mirabella.”
God, it was him. Father Alec ...
Mirabella’s heart lurched. She rose from her seat, turning to find Father Alec behind her. He stood, cloak draped over his arm, his face somber.
She offered a timid smile. “How kind of you to call on me.”
“How are you, mistress?”
“I am well,” she answered. “I received a dispatch from Father today—they had a girl.”
Father Alec lowered his eyes. His smile was fixed, grim. “Congratulations to them.” He bowed his head. “Mistress ... have you heard any news from court?”
“The court is too exhausting for me to keep up with.” She sat, gesturing for Father Alec to take the wingback chair across from her. He sank into the seat, drawing in a breath.
“I thought to come, to tell you myself,” he began. “It’s about Master Aske. Another rebellion broke out in the North.”
“Another rebellion? But the king—c-compromises were made at Christmas ...” Mirabella stammered, her heart racing.
“Master Aske wanted to stop it,” he explained. “But he couldn’t.” He sighed. “I’m afraid the instigators have been executed.”
Mirabella’s gut lurched. Her hand flew to her stomach, her face began to tingle and flush. “Executed? And Master Aske?”
Father Alec met her eyes, pointed. “I believe his days are numbered. The Pilgrimage of Grace is all but put down. It is no more.”
Tears clenched Mirabella’s throat and obscured her vision. “No! And the compromises? The promises?”
“I am certain you know what will become of those,” Father Alec told her. “My dear, it is the king’s will or no will.” He reached out, taking her trembling hands in his. “I am so sorry.”
Mirabella sank her head into her hands, shoulders quaking with sobs. “It can’t be ... then my cause ... there is no hope. There is no hope for any of us. I will never know the life I knew before. Everything has been for nothing!”
“It is a stain on the reforms,” Father Alec commented. “But perhaps this should be a sign to you to begin again, forge a new life for yourself. While I do not approve of some of the king’s reforms, not all of the strides being made are negative.”
Mirabella raised her head. “How can you say that to me? When everything I have done has been for God, for the True Faith? I am denied my calling; I am denied everything now. And everything I tried to accomplish, everything has been for naught! My poor mother—her death—”
Father Alec furrowed his brow in puzzlement. “Your mother’s death?”
“Yes, my mother’s death!” Mirabella seethed, rising. “When we were defending our pathetic cause, my mother died trying to protect me! Another who sought to execute the king’s ‘reforms’ killed her with the hilt of his sword after she stopped him from ... from—” She dissolved into sobs. She hadn’t meant to say it; she had never meant to say it.
“My child.” Father Alec rushed forward, gathering her in his arms. “Oh, my poor, dear child.”
She gave in to the embrace, burying her head in his chest, relishing the closeness as she sobbed.
“And your father and Cecily—they do not know—”
“Of course not!” she cried. “I wouldn’t upset their nuptial bliss, would I?”
Father Alec said nothing. He stroked her hair.
“My mother is dead and I am to blame. And now there is nothing left for me. I have nothing,” she went on in small tones. “I am nothing.”
Father Alec drew back, gripping her by the shoulders, meeting her intense emerald gaze with his. “That is where you’re wrong. You are not to credit yourself for your mother’s death; she did what any mother would do and you may be assured that she is rewarded for it in Heaven.” He cupped Mirabella’s face between his hands. “You have suffered a cruel blow—more than anyone should suffer. But God has plans for you; He will not fail you. The world you know is ending, but something new is being born in its place. You have the opportunity to be a part of that, to be a part of creating a new and more perfect faith—”
“How can we create a faith more perfect than that which God Himself set down?” Mirabella returned, appalled at the suggestion.
Father Alec shook his head. “Men set down the doctrine; God set down the ideal. It is to that ideal which we must strive.”
Mirabella shook her head. “I’ve done all I can to defend the faith that I hold as true. I can do no more; that is clear to me. I do not want to do more. I want no part in these ... ‘reforms.’ ”
Father Alec sighed. “God will not leave you behind,” he assured. “Yield to Him. His will may surprise you. Meantime, forge ahead with a new life. You are an educated woman; you could be a governess, perhaps, or a lady-in-waiting. I could help secure you a position with a respectable family, if you like—”
“I could not bear that kind of degradation,” Mirabella told him. “As far as being a governess, no one would appreciate what I have to teach.” She bowed her head, defeated. “I suppose there’s naught to do but return to Sumerton and be of what little help I can to Cecily and my father.”
“It is a good start.” Father Alec offered a small smile. “A place to reflect, to collect your thoughts.”
“And you, Father?” Mirabella raised her eyes to him. “Can you really remain here? Can you truly abide the travesty our world has come to?”
Father Alec bowed his head. “I will remain where I am needed and pray that good comes of it.”
“Then I suppose there’s nothing left to say,” Mirabella said. “Except, if I may ask, will you write to me at Sumerton, Father?”
Father Alec’s face softened. “I will do that.” He pulled away, bowing. “I must return.”
“As must I, it seems,” Mirabella noted, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Godspeed, Father.”
Father Alec’s smile was sardonic as he made his exit, leaving Mirabella to stand alone in a house that seemed far too big and a world that seemed hopelessly bigger.
15
At Sumerton Mirabella was pleased to be introduced to her new sister. While in London she had purchased several bolts of fabric to have garments made for her, and Cecily cooed over them with delight. Mirabella went through the motions of helping her plan the baby’s new wardrobe, and as time placed itself between her and the life she had once known she found herself falling into a sort of routine. Mornings were spent with the children; the afternoons she passed sewing with Cecily. The evenings were hers, devoted to prayer and contemplation. When the weather was pleasant, Mirabella went riding with her father or called on his tenants, that she might see to their needs. In this she felt she was at least fulfilling her charitable obligation, and she took to mending clothes for them and caring for their sick, finding the much-needed solace of a purpose.
Of the rebellion, not a word was said, not even when Robert Aske was hung outside of York Castle in chains, a grisly illustration of what became of “traitors.”
This and any other
horrors remained unspoken. Her family spoke of the children, of impetuous little Harry and Kristina’s latest antics, of Cecily’s plans to increase the family further. Lighthearted things, things that did not require thought or emotion. Or the pain of remembrance.
Yet everything was forced. There was a palpable discomfort in Mirabella’s exchanges with Cecily and her father. No one wanted an impassioned treatise on the state of religion in England; no one wanted to be uncomfortable. So Mirabella kept her thoughts to herself. She yielded to the monotony of the mundane, quelling her restlessness, quelling her grief, in fact, quelling everything that required feeling.
When the bells tolled the birth of the long-awaited Prince of Wales, little Edward, relief surged through Mirabella. Perhaps the birth of a living prince would soften King Henry; perhaps this gift from God would show him the error of his ways... . But God had other plans. He always mocked the world with His plans the moment one became complacent. Twelve days after Prince Edward’s birth, the bells heralded the death of Queen Jane, perhaps the last Catholic queen England would ever know. There would be no softening the king now. Time, that invisible army more exacting and lethal than any human one, marched on, relentless. By 1540 the king procured for England a Lutheran bride, the German Anne of Cleves, a woman who was said to repulse His Majesty at first sight.
Sporadic letters from Father Alec delivered a grim scenario.
Lady Mirabella,
Four months after his marriage the king has put Queen Anne aside in favor of a fifth bride, Catherine Howard, executing Lord Privy Seal Thomas Cromwell, the newly made Earl of Essex, as a wedding present to the Catholics. Cromwell was the foremost reformer at court. His arranging the king’s marriage to the Lutheran Anne of Cleves proved his undoing.
My heart goes out to our young Queen Catherine. At fifteen, it would be difficult to know one’s own mind, and I doubt she is espoused to any doctrine. She is ruled through another, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. It is his desire to return England to the old ways. You may yet get your wish.
Otherwise I am well. My service to Archbishop Cranmer is most rewarding. I contributed to the Bishop’s Book, which helped outline the tenets of our Church of England. In addition, the composition of the Six Articles last year holds true to Catholic tradition as well... .
Hope warmed Mirabella’s veins like wine. Though she regretted the reluctant nature of Father Alec’s missive, the fact that the True Faith had powerful supporters encouraged her. She rejoiced in the death of Cromwell, the man who had pursued the dissolution of the monasteries with the spite of a jilted lover. No, his was no loss to be sure. This new Church of England was a perversion of the True Faith, a cheap mirror of Catholicism sans the Holy Father. It could never be blessed by God; its followers were bound to suffer, just as Cromwell suffered. They were not martyrs, they were traitors of the highest degree—betrayers of God.
Yet this strange new faith was important to Father Alec and his palpable disappointment over its possible demise saddened her. His calling was as important to him as Mirabella’s had been to her. She could empathize with his plight. She was grateful he wrote her; she wanted to share his thoughts, his ideas, disagree with them though she might. Whatever his letters revealed, good or bad, Mirabella treasured each word.
It was all of Father Alec she would ever be allowed to hold dear.
Winter, 1543
“We have a new steward,” Alice Camden informed Cecily and Mirabella one afternoon as they embroidered in the bower. “James Reaves. He was the steward for Sumerton Abbey. He seems a gentle and capable young man.”
“James Reaves?” Mirabella raised her eyes from the garment she had been sewing for little Kristina. “I know him. He was in the Pilgrimage... .” Cecily noted a flush lighting her cheeks. “He is a gentleman, a kind man.”
Cecily smiled inwardly. Perhaps it would do Mirabella good to have a caller. “Does he have a family, this young Master Reaves?”
Mirabella shot Cecily a glance, pursing her lips.
“No, he’s a bachelor,” Alice answered, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I can’t imagine how he has remained one so long. He’s a handsome enough fellow.”
Cecily cocked a brow. “What does he look like?”
“Brownish hair—”
“Blond,” Mirabella corrected. “A sort of dirty blond.”
“Oh, pardon me.” Alice giggled. “Blond. Hazel eyes?”
“Gray,” Mirabella snapped. “His eyes are gray.”
“Ah, yes, how could I forget? Gray eyes.” Alice turned to Cecily. “A nicely made man as well. And such a pleasant disposition.”
“You must allow him to accompany you to Sumerton one of these days, then,” Cecily told her. “I’m sure he’d welcome a diversion from his duties now and again. And there are some lovely diversions here—”
“Cecily, really!” Mirabella cried, casting her embroidery aside as she rose. “I’ll not have you playing matchmaker!”
“How could you insinuate that I would play matchmaker?” Cecily teased.
“Honestly, you are touchy, Mistress Mirabella,” Alice added. “After all, give credit where it is due. I am playing matchmaker!”
The two women dissolved into laughter at Mirabella’s discomfort as the girl shook her head and quit the room.
“We haven’t offended her overmuch?” Alice asked, mirth still misting her eyes.
Cecily shook her head. “It is good natured. Mirabella knows we worry after her. She isn’t happy. Sumerton bores her to tears. Oh, she is good with the children and loves them well. But in truth she doesn’t know what to do with herself. These past years all she has lived for are Father Alec’s letters, and they are few enough. She needs a diversion herself. And this young James may be just the thing... .” She sighed, swallowing a lump swelling in her throat. “Life hasn’t turned out at all how Mirabella hoped. I know her first calling was to God. But it seems God wishes her to be a part of this world.”
Alice’s eyes grew distant. “It is a hard enough world to get along in,” she commented. “It is no place for women.” She bowed her head. “It is no place for my daughters and me,” she added in a whisper.
“Alice?” Cecily abandoned her embroidery, reaching out to touch her friend’s hand. Her heart lurched in sudden, inexplicable fear. “What are you about?”
Alice expelled a giddy laugh, waving the statement off. “Nothing. We are quite well. Really.” She shrugged and made a show of going back to her embroidery. But her manner was distracted and she stitched at random. There was no pattern to her design.
“Alice.” Cecily’s voice was low. “Is it Sir Edward? His sons?” She leaned forward, stilling her friend’s hands once more with her own. “Do you need help, Alice?”
Alice’s smile was fixed. Her eyes were bleary. “I am getting all the help I need,” she said. “No worries, Cecily. Truly.”
“What kind of help? From whom?” Dread pooled in Cecily’s gut. On instinct, her hand fled to the base of her throat.
Alice shook her head once more. “You are a fussy one, Cecily. I tell you, I am quite well. Better than ever, in fact. I was being silly. Really.”
With that she returned to her embroidery, leaving Cecily to sit, disconcerted and afraid for her friend without quite knowing why.
Alice seemed well when she brought James Reaves with her to Sumerton one warm winter day. Mirabella found her heart pounding in a peculiar sense of anticipation as he made his way to her in the solar, where she had been attending little Kristina, who at six had grown into a curious and precocious little girl.
“My lady.” James dipped into an awkward bow. “I do hope I am not disturbing you. Lady Camden and Lady Sumerton directed me in here. You—you once said I might call and when Lady Camden extended the invitation I thought to take the opportunity.”
Mirabella smiled despite herself. His unease touched her. She extended her hand. “Of course, Master Reaves. How good it is to see you.” At once a lump swelled h
er throat. “I was never able to convey to you my deep regret about Master Aske—the Pilgrimage. . . Oh, Master Reaves, I am so sorry.”
James bowed his head, placing a light kiss on her outstretched hand. “It was brutal, my lady. Time seems never to dull that grief.” He swallowed several times before raising his eyes to her. Unshed tears sparkled off the stormy gray orbs.
“I understand, Master Reaves,” Mirabella told him, her voice wavering with sincerity.
James did not let go of her hand; it was enfolded in his and, strangely, did not feel uncomfortable. “It seems hope for our cause must lie in a different path,” he said then.
Mirabella sighed. “I cannot imagine any hope for our cause,” she confessed, withdrawing her hand.
“There’s always hope,” James corrected her. “As long as there is a prayer left on our lips, there is hope.”
Mirabella smiled at this. There was something innocent about this Master Reaves, something untainted by tragedy and disappointment. Something endearing.
“Your optimism is refreshing, sir,” she told him. “I am very glad you came.”
James offered a crooked smile. “I am, too,” he told her. “Perhaps I may call again?”
“I would like that,” Mirabella admitted. Then, with more confidence, “I would like that very much.”
James Reaves was as good as his word. He called upon Sumerton often, either with Alice Camden or alone, and Mirabella found that his visits rescued her from the monotony her existence had slipped into. Though James was not a man of high education, he possessed the kind of intelligence many seasoned scholars lacked, that of common sense. With him Mirabella could at last air her opinions on the rebellion, on the faith that she felt Henry VIII was trampling on more and more by the day, and on her lost life. He was a good listener; he rarely interjected his own opinions. He was gentle, quiet, and believed the solution to any problem could be found through prayer. And so together the two prayed on many subjects, and if solutions were not granted from the ritual the very act of praying together brought Mirabella a sense of comfort and fellowship that she had not known since Father Alec... .
