by Brandy Purdy
I crushed the letter in my hand and let the river take it.
I long for your touch, I yearn to feel your lips pressed against mine, to lie naked with you, skin to skin, heart to heart!
He could have felt them every day, if only he had chosen to make a home and a life with me as he promised! Damn him and his lies—let the river take them and drown the lying words as sorrow had my loving heart!
You are the bright star of my life, and you shine brightest when in my arms.
But never bright enough to compare to Elizabeth; I never shone as brightly as her crown. Crumple! Into the river. Reading these words hurt too much to keep them any longer. Words I once believed, that made me feel so warm and wanted, so important and adored—they were empty, but their hollowness filled me with pain.
You are never far from my thoughts or my heart.
Our hearts are one, my darling Buttercup, and we will have a long life together.
I cannot live without you—you make me complete!
I long to be with you, to hold you, to kiss and caress and touch every part of you!
Thinking of you, Buttercup, and wishing we lay together, warm and naked in each other’s arms, touching and caressing, happy and blissfully content.
When I hold you, I hold the world in my arms—everything that matters and is dearest to me.
Lies, lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Crumple! Crumple! Crumple! Crumple! Crumple! Into the river to drown them all the way my heart drowns in sorrow! I hate you, Robert, I hate you!
I love how your body feels against mine.
I am thinking of you all hours of the day and night!
I was thinking of you last night as I closed my eyes, wanting to feel the warmth of your body next to mine, your breasts against my chest, and your fingers wrapped around my big, thick cock, feeling it grow hard in your dear little hand.
Crumple! Crumple! Crumple! Sometimes words hurt worse than broken bones; bones heal, but sometimes hearts don’t, and words always have the power to come back to haunt and hurt all over again!
I knelt there in the bed of buttercups by the river and watched the wadded and crumpled letters bob and float upon its surface, forming a little flotilla of falsehoods sailing away from me. And I left the yellow silk ribbons lying in the grass like yellow worms for the birds to find, to weave their nests with. Everything he had ever said that made me feel good was all a lie. I had never been special at all. I never really mattered; even though he married me, I was just a dalliance he could easily walk away from, crushing and breaking my heart underfoot, never caring how much it hurt and bled.
A loving heart is the most beautiful and precious gift one person can give to another, and I gave him mine. How could he break it? How could he say all those things—those wonderful, heartwarming, and stirring things—and not mean them? I used to think that I was special, I thought I mattered, I believed I was loved, and that I was important to the man I gave my heart to. Now I knew that I was nothing.
Words are worthless when actions contradict and reveal the lies hidden within. When Robert started breaking promises, that was when the truth first started peeping through the cracks, even though I turned my face away and tried to pretend, to make excuses, because I didn’t want to see its harsh and ugly goblin face. I didn’t want to face the fact that everything I believed was false. How cruel of him to pretend, to make me believe!
And how foolish of me to waste my life away, loving and wanting such a one as he; he didn’t deserve my heart, and I deserved better, a love that was true, not a wolf dressed up in sheep’s clothing, a human chameleon, a charlatan selling lies and contradictions like the potions the nostrum peddlers sold, touting miracles and wonders inside a glass bottle.
I had been blind for so long, but now I had regained my sight, and I saw Robert fully clear, and yet ... God, help me! I still love him! I don’t know why, and I know I shouldn’t, but I do, I do, I do! I want him back—but it doesn’t make sense! I know it can never be as it was; the hurt goes too deep, perhaps even deeper than did the love, the dream of which I cannot let go. I know I can never trust him again; the fragments, slivers, and shards of too many dashed hopes, shattered dreams, and broken promises lie scattered in the ever-widening gulf that has over the years grown between us. But I cannot break the spell of the illusion he sold that girl of seventeen in a bed of buttercups nigh on ten years ago!
All I want is to wake up from the nightmare my life has become and find Robert in bed beside me, smiling into my eyes, calling me his Buttercup, as he takes me into his arms and loves me with all the passion and tenderness he used to.
Let go! Let go! I tell myself. Let go of the dream—it isn’t real, and it never really was! But if I let go, what is left for me to hold on to? Air as empty as Robert’s words of tenderness and love. I’m afraid of falling, but the truth is, I’ve already fallen. I’m still alive, and yet I’m already dead. He killed me. For what is life without hopes and dreams, something to look forward to, like a welcoming candle in the window on a dark, tar black night? I know all too well the answer to that question. It is a meaningless failure, pain, and nothing; it is waking up every day knowing that you have failed at the only thing in life that matters. Sometimes I laugh—even though it hurts me, and any who saw might think me mad—I laugh until I cry, when I hear the talk that Robert means to murder me, because he already has. I live and breathe, I walk and speak, but I am already dead.
I flung myself facedown in the buttercups where we used to make love and wept, angry with Robert and even angrier at myself, watering their roots with my tears. I cried until I had no tears left and the stars had come out; then I walked slowly back to the inn, to make ready to depart at dawn, to return to Compton Verney, to be there, waiting for Robert, when he came to escort me to Cumnor Place, another house that was not my home.
28
Amy Robsart Dudley
Cumnor Place, Berkshire, near Oxford
November 1559–February 1560
Cold, gray, bleak, and dreary were the first words that sprang to mind when I first beheld Cumnor Place. It was like a large gray stone rectangle with the center hollowed out to create a gray flagstone courtyard. Everything was so ... gray! I dearly hoped the inside was enlivened by some color and that the Forsters and the others who lodged within wore cheery clothes. The roof was peaked with several sharp gables, like arrows pointing adamantly up to Heaven, and the windows were arched too. The whole place still retained the look of the monastery it had been for over two hundred years until King Henry dissolved the monasteries. Though a few refinements had since been made by the owner, Dr. Owen, Cumnor had never become a true home and was instead like several separate households existing side by side beneath the same roof, linked only by the Great Hall and the kitchen, buttery, and chapel they all shared. Though it was not a sinister place like Compton Verney, coming to Cumnor felt like arriving at the end of the world to me—desolate, with nowhere else to go, I knew I had reached my journey’s end. It did not help that it was a gray November day, drizzling rain, and so cold that it felt as if an invisible torturer were there beside me, sticking needles of ice into me that pierced right through my flesh and drilled holes into my bones that instantly filled with ice water.
I shuddered as we rode through the arched gatehouse into the courtyard, gazing up at the high, vaulted ceiling upon which avenging angels, with shields and swords of fire, did battle against a legion of demons.
There was that shivery, skin-crawling sensation again, up and down my spine and neck, making my hair stand on end. “A goose just walked over my grave,” I whispered, but if Robert, riding beside me, heard, he decided to ignore it.
Instinctively, I reached out to touch his arm, forgetting for the moment that I no longer trusted him; I just wanted a little of the comfort and warmth a wife should have from her husband.
“This place frightens me,” I confided in a quiet, tremulous whisper. “It’s like a tomb, a gray stone tomb; I think you mean to entomb me her
e, Robert!”
“Oh, for the love of Christ!” Robert exclaimed, smacking his brow with his leather-gloved palm. “You’re never satisfied, Amy! You didn’t like it at the Hydes’ and, by behaving like a madwoman, saw to it that you had to leave; you thought Richard Verney was trying to poison you and, when that failed, hired a highwayman to kill you on your spur-of-the-moment trip to London, which he knew nothing about beforehand—a neat trick that, I must say!—and now”—he sighed and waved a hand to take in Cumnor—“this place frightens you! It conjures up macabre fantasies of a tomb, and you think that I, your loving husband, intend to bury you alive here! What will it be next, I wonder. A ghost, an incubus to molest you as you sleep, a blood-sucking demon, or a whole coven of witches? God’s teeth, if you weren’t a woman, I would tell you to try your hand at writing plays; you’ve certainly the imagination for it!”
“I’m sorry, Robert ...” I started to say.
“Yes, you are, Amy,” he adamantly agreed with a vigorous nod of his head. “You are a sorry woman who is always sorry about something!”
Without giving me a chance to answer, he spurred his horse onward and raised his hand to wave as he called out a greeting to Anthony Forster and his wife, who had just stepped out into the courtyard to welcome us.
I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Thomas Blount riding behind me, looking at me with his eyes full of pity. He looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say, so to save us both—him from struggling to find the right though futile words, and me from having to hear them—I hastily turned away and hurried to catch up with Robert.
Robert left it to Mrs. Forster to show me to my rooms, while he went off to warm his hands and sit by the massive fireplace in the Great Hall and converse with Mr. Forster.
The instant I crossed the threshold, I gasped; I had never been so cold in my life! I burned and shivered and tingled and felt so tense, afraid, and wary. It was far worse than Compton Verney, which looked as though it were built to instill fear and give a body bad dreams, whereas Cumnor, though grim and gray, did not look like to harbor terrors, and the Forsters seemed right friendly.
“Come, my dear.” Mrs. Forster took my arm and gave me an encouraging smile. “It’s a cold, clammy place, I know. One would think it were carved from ice instead of stone, but you’ll be glad of it come summer, you mark my word! And far too dark, I know! It’s so difficult to light; no matter how many candles, torches, or rushlights we use, it never seems to be enough to cast out the gloom! It’s as though the shadows think this is their home, not ours, and will not be cast out! It does take some getting used to, I know. I hated it when I first came here—I thought it was as cold and dark as the grave—but those feelings will soon pass. And your rooms are lovely. You have the best wing at Cumnor—I made sure of it myself—and your things have arrived from Compton Verney, and your darling cats, and there’s a warm fire all ready and waiting for you. You’ll soon be as warm as toasted bread and feel right at home with us, I promise. And, later, after you’ve rested, I’ll introduce you to the other ladies who are lodging here, and my children. I do hope you like children, Lady Dudley; mine are rather a rambunctious lot. And I hope you are not afraid of frogs; they catch them in the pond in the park and make pets of them. They’ve a great bullfrog named Christopher; he jumped on my chest the other night while I was sleeping and nearly scared me to death! I thought the fright would turn my hair stark white!” She laughed and patted her sleek nut brown hair, pinned smoothly back beneath her hood.
She led me to a steep stone staircase that spiraled ’round a newel post, broken by a landing like a great gray slab of a tombstone in the middle.
As Mrs. Forster started up the stairs, I saw a gray-robed figure descending them at the same time. How curious! A monk! I had thought them all gone in King Henry’s time! I started to cry out, for both seemed oblivious to the other and certain to collide, but the words froze in my throat when I realized that I could see through the gray-robed friar as if he were formed of frosted glass. I was looking at a ghost! He walked right through Mrs. Forster, and she never gave a sign of noticing, only a little shiver as she uttered another complaint about the cold and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.
I hung back in fear, cowering against the wall, gathering my cloak close about me—I didn’t want any part of me to touch him—as he passed me by, then ... vanished! He just ... disappeared, as if he had never been there at all!
“Now, you must be very careful of these stairs, my dear,” Mrs. Forster cautioned as she continued slowly up them. “Don’t rush, take your time, even after you are used to them; do not let familiarity or haste make you careless. I don’t know why Dr. Owen doesn’t have them replaced. They are original to the house; it was built in 1330, I believe. The leather soles of two centuries’ worth of monks’ sandals have worn them as slick and smooth as glass. And there’s an awkward turn just here that seems to come out of nowhere... .”
Mrs. Forster glanced back and saw me still standing there at the bottom. I hadn’t moved a step; I was frozen with fear.
“Oh, I’ve frightened you when I meant only to caution you. Come, come, my dear, there’s no need to be afraid—just be careful, and you shall be just fine! I’m up and down these stairs all day, as they lead directly into the Long Gallery, where I like to sit by the fire and sew, and my children delight in running up and down when they cannot be outside. They climb these stairs like monkeys, and we’ve yet to break a bone!”
I swallowed hard and pushed myself forward and started up after her.
On the landing, I paused, took a deep breath, and forced myself to ask, “Mrs. Forster, is there ... is there a ghost?”
“A ghost, my dear?” Mrs. Forster turned and stared at me with a wary, concerned look in her eyes. “Why ever do you ask?”
“At Compton Verney there was a tale of a ghost the servants used to tell, and I ... I was just curious if there was one at Cumnor. I ... I’ve a friend who collects stories,” I rushed on, concocting a half lie to not make myself appear even more a fool, “so I always inquire at the houses I visit.”
“Oh!’ Mrs. Forster breathed a sigh of relief. “I see! Well, I hope your friend can be persuaded to visit and share some stories with us one cold winter’s night. It would be so cozy to cluster ’round the fire and listen. I know the children would enjoy it, and so would I. Yes, there is indeed a ghost said to haunt Cumnor, but it’s just a tale the servants tell, I suspect; whenever we hire a new housemaid, the others like to sneak up behind and give her a good fright. It’s said to be a gray friar with his hood drawn up, so no one can see his face; there’s only a darkness there that no human eyes or earthly light can pierce. But it’s nothing you need worry your pretty head about, my dear, for they say only the dying can actually see him. Fancy that! It’s not much of a ghost, if you ask me! Though I can see how it would give a fright to any who thought he was creeping up on them; no wonder the servants make such sport of it!”
I gasped, and everything seemed to waver and get even darker, and I felt my body lurch and sway forward and start to fall, but then Mrs. Forster was there, her arms tight about my waist, shouting for help as I hung, limp as a child’s rag poppet, in her arms. I heard running feet, and then Tommy was there, gathering me up in his arms and carrying me the rest of the way upstairs.
“Oh, the poor thing!” I heard Mrs. Forster exclaim, though her voice sounded as if it came from very far away. “Lord Robert said she’d been unwell—prone to melancholy, he said she was—and the journey must have tired her more than I realized. Come this way, Master Blount, and lay her on the bed. There, my dear.” She sat down beside me and began briskly rubbing my cold hands. “You just rest... .”
When I awakened, with Custard and Onyx purring beside me, I heard galloping hoofbeats. I sprang up and rushed to the window just in time to see Robert’s black cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of Death. Once again, he hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. The vial of g
reen hemlock pills was on the table by my bed with a note from Robert reminding me of my promise to take them. In a frenzy of anger, I snatched up the vial and flung it against the wall, shattering it, sending shards of glass and pills flying. But as Custard and Onyx stirred and padded across the bed, I ran and frantically picked it all up for fear that my pets might be harmed by them. I threw the evil little green things into the fire, then ran back to the bed, gathered both my cats in my arms, and nuzzled and kissed them, letting their soft fur soak up my tears.
I kept to my room for a week. I didn’t want to see anyone. I had no desire for company or food. Every time Pirto brought me a message from Mrs. Forster or a tray, I shook my head and turned my face to the wall until she went away. I just lay there, listless against the pillows, watching the sun rise and set through the windows, sometimes sleeping for a little while and always trying to remember to sleep on my back and not roll over onto my left side and provoke an angry protest from my cancer-riddled breast. It was like the pain caused by biting into something very sugary and sweet with a rotten tooth, only much worse, and this pain echoed for hours afterward.
But my solitude was soon to end. Mrs. Forster’s rambunctious brood would not be dissuaded, and soon they were pushing past Pirto and bounding up onto my bed, to introduce themselves to me and show me their toys and frogs, including the famous Christopher, who they boasted could leap farther and croak louder than any frog God ever made, a talent he displayed by promptly belching out a deep, sonorous croak whenever his belly was tickled. They entertained me with stories, songs, dances, and riddles, and enacted little dramas for me, including their favorite game of “Old King Henry and His Wives.” The boys would each take turns portraying the mighty, murderous monarch, pointing and bellowing like thunder, “Off with her head!” as the girls, taking turns being either Anne Boleyn or Katherine Howard, fell to their knees, cowering before the King, hands clasped, begging for mercy, only to be dragged away bawling and screaming by another boy enacting the role of executioner to lay their head upon the block. They brought flowers to brighten my sickroom and treats like jam tarts and fresh-baked gingerbread to try to excite my appetite. The boys enacted battles around my bed mounted on their hobbyhorses and clashing wooden swords while their sisters sat ’round me with their dolls. And sometimes they played dress-up with my gowns and jewels. When their mother cautioned them to be careful and despaired that they would ruin my beautiful things with their jam-sticky fingers, I shrugged and said, “Let them. I have many gowns, but no children of my own.”