The Heir and the Spared

Chapter Seven

Confining as the carriage was, Mary felt a sort of freedom in it. She could pretend to be alone - no one watching her, no one listening to her. Yes, of course, she could hear the smart and regimented clicking of hoofbeats on the cobblestone, reminding her that the carriage was surrounded by her escort of guards. Yet for once, no one was scrutinizing her expression, no one was waiting for her to give an order. The liberty, so rare to her, was almost exhilarating.

She peered out the carriage window onto the busy streets of London. Even this early in the morning, the city was awake. Few people were strolling in the park, as most people of leisure did not rise so early - yet in the streets, people were hurrying to and fro, perhaps heading to work along the Thames.

The memory came back to her, unbidden, of her arrival in England, half a lifetime ago. Travel-weary and fearful of meeting with her new husband, as her carriage bumped along the rutted road to the palace, she had studied everything she passed. The Thames had struck her as dirty, for it smelled unpleasant. She had wished she had perhaps stayed on in Paris, where she had stopped before the last leg of her voyage across the channel - and wished even more heartily that she could still be in Italy.

It was when they had passed through Westminster that she first saw the beauty in London. Above the gray streets rose the white pinnacles of the Abbey. She had leaned forward in her seat eagerly. Based only on a brief visit to the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, she was struck by the similarities in what she had seen then and what she saw at Westminster Abbey. It bore similarities, too, to the cathedral of her youth in Modena. The stark beauty of the Gothic architecture, the two white towers like hands reaching heavenwards, fortified her soul. It was, of course, a silly thing to have to realize, but she had been so young: God could still be found here in England, just as He had been in Paris and in Modena.

When she had arrived at St. James' Palace for the first time, everyone else had received her coldly. She remembered how cruelly this had affected her when she had been so young, and she had not yet been accustomed to such unkindness. Yet the king, her husband as declared by proxy, had taken her hands and met her gaze.

"Welcome, my bride," he had said, with a little smile that flitted over his face. She had realized with surprise that he had been nervous; such a thing seemed impossible for him, a king, far older and more worldly and more experienced than she. "I praise God for your safe arrival. I hope you will be able to feel quite at home here."

As she had been practicing her English until it was quite as polished as her Italian and French, it was not from a lack of linguistic knowledge that she hesitated in replying; it had only been her nerves, fluttering in her stomach. "I thank you, Your Majesty," she had murmured, and had curtseyed to him.

He had lifted her gently from the curtsey until she had straightened and looked him in the eye once more. His eyes had been so warm, so anxious; he had been so eager to please her then!

The carriage halted, and Mary drew a breath, pulled out of her reverie.

A moment later, the carriage door was opened, and a footman offered his hand to help Mary down. She inclined her head to him in gratitude, placing her hand in his before setting foot on the ground.

And though the ground was sturdy, just as it had been when she first disembarked on English shores, it felt as though it was shifting beneath her.

--

The corridors of Whitehall were nearly as quiet as a church.

Sarah noticed this less now than she had in her first two days of service there. However, it still struck her as strange - especially after the happy bustle of life at St. James' Palace.