Anne wiped her fingers on her bread and rested her hands in her lap. “I meant no disrespect. I was enjoying the dinner.”
Catherine stared at her, but Anne could not see what the queen weighed in her mind. Catherine brushed her hand across her face and returned to eating in silence, her cold face intent on Anne’s. If Queen Catherine blamed her for her sister, Anne did not know. Anne’s sister was carrying Henry’s baby, and the family’s shameful secret was everyone’s favourite course at this table. Anne had been retrieved from the French queen’s court to serve Catherine in humble apologetic submission, and her father hoped she would redeem the family’s name. Anne wanted only to marry Percy and be free of them all. This was what pleased God, the priests said: Women living in obedient service, tending hearth and children. Anne had learned in France that she could never please both a royal court and God, and she had seen too many broken lives at court to set her heart there. She would marry and be free at last to live by the church’s rules instead of men’s.
With the next round of courses, the court returned their attention to Catherine, and Anne was relieved to be ignored again.
After dinner, the noon sun was burning the last of the morning clouds away, and Anne requested permission to rest in the quiet of her bedchamber rather than accompany the women to the garden for music. It was not a thing that would be done by another lady of the court, but Catherine walked as if in a dream and gave her leave with no further thought. Catherine did not have the energy to sustain a hatred for her. Anne noticed that Dr. Butts, the court physician, hovered around Catherine, testing her brow with his wrist and urging her to sit.
Anne gave it no more consideration and fled to her chamber, the delight of having it alone making it the sweetest place on earth. Ten empty beds greeted her and the drapes were drawn against the window so that it was shadowed, the still air sweet and heavy inside the thick castle walls, making exquisite conditions for a nap. She had slept, but not truly rested, in the weeks since she had been here, always awaking to the feeling that something had been near. The book was still on the foot of the bed, and she glared at it, moving it to a night table where it would not be disturbed by a breeze.
Taking off her farthingale and laying it over the foot of the bed, she pulled back her coverlets and saw it.
A new sleeping gown, soft white linen with ribbons gathering the neck and sleeves and painstaking lavender embroidery spiraling the sleeves and down the front of the gown, with a gold weave of the great Tudor rose. It had been folded and placed under her coverlet, and a note fell away as she lifted it up for inspection.
Because you did not despise the sorrow of a broken man.
There was no signature.
There was a stirring of air around her, and Anne covered her mouth with her hands. She could not tell where the stirring came from … if something was sweeping in or departing. Either way, she sensed the breaking fissure beneath her and prayed.
“Anne, Anne.”
She opened her eyes and winced. Someone had pulled back the drapes and the sun was at its peak. It must have been nearly four in the afternoon, and the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting, a girl named Jane, was still shaking her.
“Anne, you must dress. The masquerade is starting!”
Anne sat up. She held the sleeping gown in her hands like a blanket and slid it out of view under the coverlet, frowning. Jane did not notice but grabbed Anne’s hands and helped her dress. Anne studied the girl when she could, wondering why this lady-in-waiting had warmed to her.
“They made fun of me at music today. I have no ear for singing, yet they forced me to sing alone, just to make the queen laugh.”
“I am sorry, Jane.”
Anne was shivering in her chemise, though the sun was warm. She could see the dust floating through the air, kicked up when Jane helped her step into her petticoat, the farthingale going over this. The corset went over her head, and Anne began to feel like herself again after her nap, the layers of clothes bolstering her to face the women. Jane fastened the bumroll and parlet on next, and whipped around to grab the kirtle that went on top of the underskirts. The gown itself was the last piece, split open down the skirt so that the kirtle could be seen.
Anne favoured a headpiece she had brought from France, but Jane had trouble securing it.
“I am sorry, Anne! I can’t set it right. Why don’t you wear one of mine?”
“No, let me show you how,” Anne offered, guiding her hand, holding the headpiece down so Jane could secure it.
“You shouldn’t wear it. The queen does not like the ways of the French court.”
“The queen will sooner send me away.” She caught Jane’s hand after the piece was secured. “I am not like my sister, Jane.”