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Another Loss; tag: JDuds
Topic Started: Dec 9 2011, 03:48 PM (225 Views)
Catherine Willoughby
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vérité sans peur
January 28, 1513

The cold chapel was only a little comforting when Catherine knelt to be blessed that she had been spared the dangers of childbirth and was now cleansed, loose hair covered by a veil. Now, she could return to life as normal. She could partake in the Eucharist, she could come to Mass, she could go to Confession, all the things that had been denied her the past weeks due to giving birth. It was all ridiculous, in her mind, but she wasn't brave enough to buck tradition and do away with it entirely. Mostly, when she was supposed to be ruminating on her luck for not dying or her baby not dying, she was wondering at the importance of it all. At least it didn't take very long, and after offering a tithing gift, she went back to her usual bedroom, not the rooms she had been cooped up in after having little Cecilia who was now happily in her own set of nursery rooms, growing every day.

When she returned to her old rooms she breathed a sigh of relief. The fire was banked up, keeping it nice and warm. She discarded of the veil and absently thought about how she should call in a maid to dress her hair and find some nice hood that would complement her gown, now that she could be seen in public again--even though public here at Grimsthorpe was simply her family and servants who had known her since birth. Curiously, Catherine saw a letter sitting on the table next to the fire, where a chair was waiting for her. She couldn't not open it, seeing it as she did, wondering who it was from and why someone would write to her.

It was from Lord Powis. Why in God's name would he write to her? The husband of her friend Anne, who she barely knew, writing to her in the dead of winter? Odd. Catherine broke the seal as she sat down, scanning the words with her brow furrowed, until she stopped to really read it. The reason why he wrote to her became apparent. She was shocked as she read of the death of her friend, a tragic accident that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to it, for a lady who had just given birth and was happy in her life. Now, taken away by God, for whatever reason. Why did things like this happen? And moreover why did someone not tell her? Why did she have to wait for a letter? The shock gave way to a little bit of anger that hid the sadness. She'd think about the sadness later. If her mother was there... then her mother had known... and her mother had not told her! Did John know? Catherine, instead of wanting to cry (because part of her did), wanted to write a nasty missive to her mother, but she tamped that down. She couldn't do that, as much as she wanted to.

When she heard the door creak open, she figured it would be one of her maids, maybe to bring her something to eat or to dress her hair so she could go down to supper later; but when Catherine glanced over her shoulder she saw it was John. "Did you know about this? About Anne?" Far from being accusatory like she had been when he waltzed right into her rooms after she gave birth, she sounded sad. "It seems my lady mother knew. And did not tell me..."
[align=center]"I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world but fit for me."

Catherine is in 2 threads.
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John Dudley
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Even though his wife hadn't been pleased to see him, John lingered at Grimsthorpe. The castle, as breath-taking as it was in spring and summer, was even more beautiful in summer. With snow blanketing the grounds and ice frosting the trees and windows, it was like a frozen palace from the mythos of ancient Greece or Rome. And though John could not enjoy the grounds as he did in summer, that did not stop him from enjoying them. Rides with Cuthbert to see if they could scare out any game, or merely for exhilaration, were becoming a common occurrence, with both men returning to the castle frosted with snow as though they were cakes and the powder frosting.

And of course, there was Cecilia, when John could see her. Her damnable nursemaid was so strict about the whole thing -- much like his wife! It was as though they expected him to eat the child! Which was absurd and certainly somehow blasphemous. But whenever John held Cecilia, the beautiful babe that he and Catherine had created -- well, he never felt more at peace with himself. Had his father once felt the same holding him? Andrew? Jerome? Elizabeth? He would never know.

But the day had finally come for Catherine to be churched, and John was very eager to see his wife. It was not for the reasons she would expect -- no, no (though that wouldn't be too terrible in John's opinion). Warwick merely wanted to see his wife and give her a kiss, talk to her without getting a lecture on how wicked he was and so on and so forth. The winter weather was not the only thing that chilled him -- John missed his wife and her kisses, he missed her company. And since Catherine did not wish to return to London, he would have to enjoy her as long as he could before he inevitably went back to London.

John figured his wife would be in her rooms, and he was not disappointed to find her reading a letter. Was it the letter from Wilmington again? Was she truly obsessing over such a thing?! John's lips parted to speak, but his wife beat him to it. Her question puzzled him. "Anne who?" John queried for, truly, there were many Annes. And whatever it was, the news did not seem pleasing the way it furrowed Catherine's brow. Closing the door behind him, John crossed to his wife, his blue eyes flickering to the letter and then back to Catherine's face. "What has happened?"
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Catherine Willoughby
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"Anne. My friend Anne." Catherine was still rather shocked by the news so she didn't have much brain left to use to be irritated at her husband. And besides, well, there were many women named Anne... Except the fact that only one of them is--was--a friend. "Lord Essex's sister, Anne. Lord Powis's wife..." She trailed off, the reality of the situation--that Anne was truly dead, in a horrific accident--only slowly coming to slap her in the face, after that initial tide of anger at how stupid Anne had been to let something like that happen to her. Such a lady, a new mother (the poor child! perhaps being a mother herself was now giving Catherine some sort of empathy), and now... gone.

Knowing that her mother had run off to see Powis's baby was enough to make Catherine believe that her mother knew, and simply didn't tell her. Why? Did her mother want to spare her delicate feelings? Or did her mother simply find it not important? Either one wouldn't have surprised her. "My lady mother ran off to Powis. She must have known--and she must have deliberately not told me about this. But you didn't know?"

Eyes flickering from John's face to the letter, she let out a long, rather sad sigh, not knowing what to say other than, "She had some horrific accident, Lord Powis wrote to tell me, and--" Catherine stopped herself, unable to say the dread words, just as she couldn't with others before Anne Chamerlyn who had left before their time. God was sure a greedy fellow, snatching those close to the young countess for no reason, swiftly and mercilessly. "Like everyone else," she finished quietly, shaking her head, loose hair shifting about her shoulders as she fiddled with the parchment in her hand before tossing it into the fire. It fluttered then ignited once it hit the flames, Arthur Chamerlyn's words ashes soon enough. "I am sorry you came to see me and hear of this, it has quite...ruined my day."

(Sorry it's short and crap! XD)
[align=center]"I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world but fit for me."

Catherine is in 2 threads.
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John Dudley
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The news was as shocking to John as it was to Catherine. William's sister Anne? The astonishment was very visible on the man's face as he took hurried steps to cross to his wife. Oh, poor William, how was he holding up? He would worry on that later; for now, his wife needed comfort. John knelt next to where his wife sat, his larger hands finding her smaller ones. "I'm so sorry, my dear." What else could be said? John's hands squeezed his wife's, and he peered up to her.

It was very queer for Lady Willoughby to not have told either her daughter or her son-in-law her purpose of leaving. At the moment, John hadn't cared -- he had his wife all to himself with no dragon-in-law, and that was pleasant enough for him n0t to feel the need to inquire. But now... Poor William, poor Lord Powis, and their poor child... Poor Catherine. John's heart was heavy, for life was oftentimes very cruel. "I did not know at all, as stunning as that may be. I should write to Lord Essex later..." John sighed and again squeezed his wife's hands.

Catherine's comment like everyone else did not miss John's attention. He reached up, gently chucking her under his chin. "Now, now. God has a reason for everything -- even though He knows I never know what it is, and that's quite infuriating." There was a dry humor to his voice, but nothing that was hoping to solicit laughter or a smile from his wife. After John's own brush with death, he knew it wasn't a laughing matter. "What can I do for you, my dear Catherine? I do not expect you to laugh, to dance, to smile with such news -- but surely there is something I can do to ease the pain." A placating smile was given and John suggested, "Perhaps we could bring Cecilia in here and lay together on the bed... counting each other's toes, seeing who's ticklish, and whatnot."
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Catherine Willoughby
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The look that crossed John's face was probably similar to the one that crossed Catherine's when she read the dire news. So he hadn't known. But her mother certainly had, judging by her hasty retreat to Powis. God knew why she was there despite the child being her godson. That meant little. Family connections, that was all. Perhaps Mary Willoughby wanted the hell out of Grimsthorpe Castle now that she would not be queen of it with her daughter recovered from childbed and her son-in-law residing there. After all, John was the man of the house. His word overruled anything the dragon lady might say. God knew she couldn't handle that!

"I assume my lady mother knew," she said flatly, repeating the news, shaking her head. Catherine was sad, angry, annoyed. She didn't know quite which to feel at the moment. "I wish she would have told me. I was no invalid! I could take such news. And now she's run off probably because you are here to gainsay her. She can be at Powis where everyone will listen to her shouting." Wrinkling her nose, wondering if they were better off here without her mother's eagle eye, she looked from her husband's grave face to the fire where the letter was now ashes.

No matter how comforting John was trying to be it wasn't working, but what would when you found out yet another of your friends died? "I know. God's will is better than ours but why does He do such things? They say He punishes us but I would say I am a worse sinner than Anne ever was and I am still here. She is not." Bad luck, maybe. Catherine was glad she at least had good luck--so far. Escaping trouble, and now coming out of childbirth strong and unscathed. God at least was watching out for her, for whatever reason. She didn't know what else to say. At least she wasn't weeping, though part of her felt like it. She just felt so tired. Tired of sadness and heartache and emotions in general. Crying would be such a waste of her time and energy.

John's suggestion of spending time with the baby brought a puzzled look to Catherine's face. She rose her brows, eyeing him curiously, wondering again why he would even think such things when men--all men!--cared naught for their children. Even Catherine, Cecilia's mother, would never have thought of such a thing. It was unseemly. And it would ruin the nursemaid's day, perhaps the only reason to do it as the dull lady seemed irritated every time Catherine checked in or held the child and lamented she could not feed her own babies like most women did. "You could suggest such a thing to the nurse, I am sure she would keel over in horror at that and then I would not have to deal with her sour temper," she suggested, vaguely cheerful considering the topic of conversation before then was about, well, death. "She does not even like it when I hold her. She says coddling children is bad for them."
[align=center]"I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world but fit for me."

Catherine is in 2 threads.
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John Dudley
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Discontent was a feeling John often felt with his mother-in-law. Her temper had mellowed somewhat as of late, but for her to slink off to Powis’ aid without telling her daughter the cause – especially when her daughter had been such an intimate friend with Lady Powis as to suffer imprisonment with her at the beginning of the previous year – was utterly wounding and distrustful. Perhaps her mother’s words might have softened the blow, but John was beginning to suspect that he could not trust his mother-in-law to treat her own daughter with such deference. Swallowing his thoughts, John turned his attention back to his wife.

The year had changed her very much. Catherine had begun it as a new bride, but now she was a mother who had seen the death of her friends… So many friends. That paired with the death of a child they would never know and now the joy of Cecilia had changed Catherine very much. It was now that John realized it with startling clarity – She was a different woman than the one he married, but still his Catherine. She would always be his Catherine. As she spoke bitter words (how could she not be bitter?), John squeezed her hand. He had no idea how he could counter such a statement for he did not know God’s mind at all.

“I don’t think we shall ever know. You know better than I how I view Him.” His supposed deathbed confession had revealed more of himself than Warwick would have probably cared to admit, but perhaps Catherine would find understanding in the fact that John was no God-warrior.“I suppose, to avoid losing our sanity, we must just believe that everything will turn out well in the end.” A pathetic shrug lifted and dropped John’s shoulders. “Any other comfort I might offer on the subject would not be comfort at all – simply annoying prattling.” A small smile curled John’s lips as his eyes raised to Catherine’s face.

The smile spread into a wolfish one at Catherine’s reply, and John sat a little straighter. “As your mother so dislikes, I am the man of the house.” It was almost juvenile how wide he was smiling at the revelation. “Would it please you to watch such a horror?” Eyebrows bounced on his brow as though leaping trout in a pond. “Last that I checked, we were the ones paying her – dash what she says! If you wish to see your child, you shall!” John stood and looked toward the door. “How shall we irritate and make sport of the nursemaid, my love?” Such a statement sounded rather cruel, and perhaps it was, but if John could coax a smile from Catherine on the tails of such news, he would do it.
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Isabel Leigh
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Virtue alone is invincible.
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