With a gesture of affection Marguerite had thrown her arms about Mary. Were those caressing hands trying to discover whether there was any thickening of the girlish figure?

Mary returned the embrace but continued to look mysterious.

“I can decide nothing … yet,” she said.

“But your brother, I have heard, is sending an embassy to France. I think his wish is that you should return to England with it.”

“An English embassy! I wonder whom he will send.”

“I do know that it will be led by the Duke of Suffolk.”

All melancholy was replaced by joy. If Henry was sending Charles, it could mean that he remembered his promise. Was Henry saying: Now it is up to you!

This changed everything. Charles was coming. Nothing in the world could have made her happier.

She must hide her joy. Marguerite was too watchful; and a little sly, she had to admit, for Marguerite, while posing as her friend, was in truth her brother’s spy.

She knew full well that although Marguerite expressed her friendship and François constantly hinted that a closer relationship would please him, they were her enemies—in so much as they would not help her to marry Charles Brandon.

She was not so simple that she did not know the reason for François’s desire for a French marriage. He wanted to keep her dowry.

But Charles was coming! And this time she would not be cheated.

She walked to her couch and lay down on it.

“I feel a little tired,” she told Marguerite. “I think I shall have to rest a little more frequently … now.”

“You mean … ?”

“Just that I do seem to be in need of this rest, my dear Marguerite. Thank you for coming to see me.”

She turned her face away and Marguerite must leave her, bewildered, frustrated, as deep in that dreadful uncertainty as she had been before her visit.

It was unseemly for a widow to be so happy. She could not help it. When she rose she wanted to sing: “Charles is coming to France.” It was her last thought before retiring each night.

Every day she waited for news of the English embassy. She would say to herself: “This very day he may come walking into the apartment.” She knew what she would say to him when he did come. “Charles, Charles, now. No delay. We must take no more chances. I have waited too long and will wait no longer. Take me now, for I am yours and you are mine for as long as we both shall live.”

Still he did not come. But she was not in despair. Perhaps he was waiting at Dover now. Perhaps the gales were too fierce. Oh, the perils of the sea! They alarmed her; they frightened her. But he would come through them safely. She was certain.

“Soon, my love. Soon I shall be in your arms,” she murmured.

And meanwhile the trinity were watching for signs of her pregnancy, and they would try to prevent her marriage to Charles Brandon, she knew, because their plan was to force her into marriage with Charles of Savoy.

I’d die rather, Mary told herself.

She was burning with impatience. She could scarcely endure the days, and life was so dull and dreary in the mourning chamber while she was waiting for Charles that she must try to infuse a little gaiety into her life.

She kept little Anne Boleyn at her side. The girl was discreet, she was sure; moreover she was English.

“Soon,” Mary told Anne, “we shall be going to England. I shall never marry here.”

Then she was afraid that she had been indiscreet and, taking the girl by her long black hair, warned her of the horrors which would befall her if she ever repeated what she had heard.

The serene black eyes were untroubled; Mary knew she could rely on the child, who was wise beyond her years.

She would have only Anne to help her dress and insisted that together they spoke English. And if Anne was astonished at the petticoats Mary insisted on wearing she gave no sign.

“There!” cried Mary. “How do I look?”

Anne put her head on one side, her black eyes disapproving. She was already fastidious about her dress, and a very fashionable young lady who could always be relied on to bring out the ornaments which looked best on certain gowns.

“Too fat, Madame,” said Anne.

Then Mary laughed and taking the girl by the hands danced round the room with her.

“So I look fat, do I? So would you, Mistress Anne, if you were as petticoated as I am. And I will tell you something; tomorrow I shall wear yet another petticoat; and I want you to find some quilting.”

“Quilting, Madame?”

“I said quilting. Those black eyes are very inquisitive. Never mind, little Anne. You shall discover. In the meantime not a word … not a word to anyone of petticoats or quilting. You understand me?”

“Yes, Madame.” The black eyes were demure, the lips turned up at the corners. The girl had wit enough to enjoy the joke.

Each day Mary was visited at the Hôtel de Clugny by Louise, Marguerite or François.

Daily her body seemed to grow thicker and each day as they left her they were in greater despair.

Mary’s eyes, sparkling with excitement, would be watchful. They knew that she guarded some secret, which gave her the utmost pleasure.

“There can be no doubt about it,” said Louise in despair. “Louis has left her pregnant.”

François beat his fist against his knee. “Months of waiting … then the birth. And if it is a boy … Foi de gentilhomme, why is Fate so cruel!”

Louise paced up and down her apartment.

“That it should have come to this. All the years and now … this. Who would have thought Louis capable!”

Only Marguerite had comfort to offer. “It may be a girl,” she said.

But even so there would be the months of uncertainty.

Mary had shut the door of her chamber and taken little Anne by the hands. She danced with her round and round until they were both breathless.