She raises her head to him, smirking. “When shall we tell Lady Mary?”
“I knew you would see it my way, Elizabeth.” Norfolk’s tone is quite pleasant.
I turn around and lean against the wall a moment for support. Tears flood my eyes. The circlet is clammy in my cold hands. It is all right, then, what just happened? Is it some game between them? I take in a few shuddering breaths. I should not be so upset. I have much to look forward to now, it seems. Whatever occurs between my parents is best left to them. This may be how all couples relate. Should this be the case, I shall pray fervently that I am admitted into a convent. But one does not have babies in a convent! I begin to wring my hands in panic.
“My lady?” a gentle voice queries. Hands white as lilies rest upon my shoulders, and I see through a veil of tears the sweet face of my favorite maid. Her wide-set brown eyes are filled with familiar tenderness. “What is it, lamb?”
I attempt to still my trembling lip. “I…I do believe I’m going to court,” I say, not wishing to confide the disturbing scene between my parents to Bess.
Her full, rosy lips curve into a radiant smile. “But that’s wonderful!” she cries, guiding me down the hall into the nursery, where we sit on the settee. She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs my eyes. Her other hand seizes mine and strokes my thumb in an absent fashion.
“It is wonderful,” I agree, but the words are empty. I am nervous. I need to do something. I take the handkerchief. I am far too grown-up to allow her to continue blotting my tears away, and it will occupy my fidgety hands. As I bring it to my face I find the monogram, embroidered in the lovely shade of Tudor green. “T H,” I say. The corner of my mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Now, what lad would have given you this, Bessie Holland?” I reach out and tug one of her white-blond ringlets.
She flushes bright crimson and lowers her eyes. Such a demure creature, I think to myself. She is everything I want to be.
“’Tis nothing,” she says, snatching it from me.
“But, Bess, it’s so romantic! You must tell me!” I cry, taking her hands. “Is he very handsome? And kind?” I add. After what I just witnessed it is now vital that he be kind to my gentle Bess.
Bess offers a slow nod. “Yes,” she says at length. “He is kind to me.” She rises and begins to stroll about the nursery, picking up knickknacks and setting them down in a distracted manner. I admire how her voluptuous figure swaggers a bit as she walks. “I shall miss you, my lady.” Her voice is wistful. “Now it will just be little Thomas, and he’ll be sent away soon enough for his education. What fine ladies and gentlemen I have attended these past years! And think—soon you shall be among the finest.”
“I can hardly wait to see what the ladies of the court are wearing,” I muse, perked up by the thought of glittering jewels and cloth of gold.
Bess’s tone grows quiet. “Take care around Anne. I used to attend her before coming here. She is the loveliest of women, but her mind is…unquiet.”
“I don’t remember her. I have not seen her since I was a child.”
Bess laughs and I gather it is because she still considers me a child. I puff out my chest in indignation, imagining the breasts that will soon erupt from the flat landscape of my girlhood. I break into giggles.
“She is much favored by the king.” Bess sits down again. Her eyes are alight with intrigue. “You know that she usurped her sister’s place in that—”
The door bursts open, interrupting her tale, and I am disappointed. I want so much to learn of this world I am about to enter and know I cannot ask anything of my father.
“Mary.” It is Norfolk himself. He offers a smile as he enters. “We will be leaving for court directly. Why don’t you see to the packing of your things? Just a few things, mind you. I shall have new gowns ordered upon our arrival.”
“Can Bess come?” I ask, clinging to her hand.
He bows his head, clearing his throat. “No, not just now.”
I pout a moment before seizing Bess’s hands and kissing her cheeks. I exit but do not run this time. Something keeps me rooted in place outside the door and I wonder if this is my fate, camping outside of doors, listening to things I do not want to hear, for surely what I am hearing now is out of a dream.
Sweet murmurs assault my ears. Yes, assault, because they are not exchanged between those who should utter them. I turn. My father has Bess’s head cupped between his hands. She is smiling up at him with the unadulterated adoration of a love-starved child. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce passion he used in striking my mother. When they part they are breathless. They lean back on the settee and I watch his hand snake down her stomacher.
T. H. Thomas Howard. So the handkerchief she offered me was his. On what occasion had he lent it to her? Had she been crying over her undesirable role as mistress? Had she been demanding that he rid himself of my mother to set her, wicked Bessie Holland, in her place? I picture the whole scene, my cheeks hot with rage. My father wrapping his arms around Bess and consoling her, promising her the world if she’d only be patient a little while longer. He gives her his handkerchief and she clutches it to her ample bosom just to lure his eyes to that ripe spot wherein beats her sinful little heart. Oh, the seducer!
Bile rises in my throat as I quit the mental imagery. A firm hand grips my shoulder. How is it he can move so swiftly and silently, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut against whatever is to come. But when I open them it is into my mother’s face I look.
“So. Now you see,” she says in her low voice. There are no tears in her eyes. She is a strong little woman, her angular jaw set in a line of determination, her challenging gaze stormy blue. She is not like Bess—soft, round Bess—who is made of honey and cream. Mother cannot afford to be honey and cream. She is fighting, always fighting. Now I know what she is fighting for.
“Yes,” I say with profound sadness. “Now I see.”
“You will be careful at this court of Henry, the Eighth of That Name.” I nod at the gravity of this formal order. “You must know that when you are there you will not see His Grace your father very much at all, and I will be busy attending Her Majesty. Be quiet. Watch and learn. Never tattle on anyone else, no matter how tempted you are by the promises of others. Be still. Keep your own counsel. Self-preservation, Mary, is of the utmost importance at this court.”
“Yes, Mother.” My throat contracts with tears. I want her to enfold me in her arms the way Bess does when I am sad or frightened. But I am angry at Bess and remind myself to admire my mother’s cool sense of control rather than long for the embrace of that vile betrayer.
Mother nods to me. I nod back. We part company.
This is how true ladies conduct their business.
I am leaving. Bess catches me before I descend to the great hall.
Sensing my coldness, her soft eyes make their appeal. She clings to my hands as if she does not know of her transgression. I snatch them from hers and scowl. Her face registers her sorrow as she seizes my wrists.
“My lady.” Her voice is almost a whimper, stirring my heart. “Your father is a powerful man. We can only all of us do his bidding. My family…they depend on His Grace.” Tears stream down her cheeks with abandon. “I…I have no choice, my lady.”
I blink several times to keep fresh tears at bay. “Such topics are not suitable for my ears,” I say, thinking myself to be quite dignified, but feeling a fraud. I disengage myself and turn around to go meet my parents.
“Mary!” Bess cries.
The unchecked agony of her voice causes me to stop.
“I love you like my own,” she says, her milky voice edged with desperation.
I burst into tears and run