“My darling,” he cried, “I am so proud of you!” Mary smiled nervously up at him, and eagerly he took the child, gazing at it in awe.
“My little girl!” he cried. “And she has the Carey looks!” He was unaware of the collective exhalation of relief around him. Of course, Anne thought, the King is his cousin, which would account for the likeness. Mercifully no one had commented on how large for a seven-months child the baby was. Probably Will had no idea how newborns looked.
The infant was called Catherine, in honor of the Queen, and Father came home for the christening, which was held in the church at Hever. Mary recovered quickly from her confinement and became absorbed in her daughter. Motherhood suited her.
—
Six weeks later, the family were together again, gathered at Framlingham Castle in Suffolk for the funeral of Grandfather Norfolk, who had died at the venerable age of eighty. Neither Anne nor any of the Howard womenfolk attended the lavish obsequies in Thetford Priory, but they were present at the great reception held in the castle afterward.
It was good to see George again, and to catch up on all the gossip of the court.
“I do wish I could be there,” Anne said wistfully, as they exchanged news over goblets of wine. “I miss it dreadfully. It is so dull in the country. Have I not been punished enough?”
“I wish you could be there too,” George replied. “I’m sure you will be soon. Father has influence. He’s just been made vice-chamberlain of the Household. The word is he will be chamberlain next. So I doubt you will have long to wait, Anne.”
“Maybe Uncle Norfolk will put in a good word for me,” she said, watching the new Duke, sumptuously attired in a black damask gown lined with sable, receiving the condolences of his guests.
“He will,” George assured her. “Family is important to him. He sees us as Howards rather than Boleyns.”
“I didn’t realize he was fifty—it’s late to come into his inheritance.”
“The old martinet has plenty of vigor in him, never fear. He is well thought of by the King, and aims high accordingly.”
“Come.” She drew George over to where their uncle stood.
Thomas Howard looked down at her with his sharp, heavy-lidded eyes. His craggy face with its beak of a nose was drawn with lines of grief, but the thin lips curved in a smile.
“Well, niece, it is a pleasure to see you,” he said. “We have missed you at court.”
“I wish I could return, my lord uncle,” Anne told him. “I am sick to the stomach of being exiled to Hever.”
“I could think of worse places to be exiled to,” Norfolk said. “Be patient, girl. I will speak for you when the time is right.”
And with that Anne had to be content.
—
That evening, she and George walked along the ramparts of the castle. She thought her brother was quiet, but put it down to sorrow at the loss of their grandfather, whose presence pervaded this place. George paused and she stood silently beside him, looking out on miles of verdant Suffolk countryside.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Of course.”
A shadow passed over George’s face. “I am to be married. Father told me today. It was finalized before he left court.”
“Who is the lucky lady?” she asked.
“Jane Parker,” he said, his voice flat.
“She’s quite pretty,” she said, “and her father is very learned.”
“She’s passable, if you fancy that type”—George shrugged—“but I don’t like her. Anne, there’s something about her—I can’t put my finger on it, but it repels me. I wish to God I didn’t have to go through with this.”
“I am so sorry,” Anne said.
George sighed deeply. “Well, I suppose I shall have to do what many men do when they are saddled with wives they cannot love. I shall breed heirs on her and take my pleasure elsewhere.”
She did not doubt that he would. She wondered at herself for being pleased that he would find some comfort in adultery, when she would roundly have condemned it in other men. “Try to love her, for both your sakes,” she said. “Your life will be much happier if you do.”
He smiled at her. “I will try. We haven’t been very lucky in love, have we, Anne? Do you still miss Harry Percy?”
“I do. Has he been at court?”
“No, I haven’t seen him. If I do, do you want me to say anything?”
“No!” Anne declared. “That part of my life is over. I can have nothing to say to a married man.” Truly, she thought, I have moved on. The pain was still there, but it was a dull ache, not a piercing agony, and she often went hours at a stretch without thinking of her lost love.
It was growing dark. She shivered a little in her thin black silk dress.
“Come, let us go in,” she said.
—
The months dragged on. In November, Anne and her family journeyed to Morley Hall in Norfolk for George’s wedding. Lord Morley was a charming host, and a most erudite man, and kind. He made a great fuss of Mary, who was with child again. Jane Parker made a pretty bride in her crimson velvet gown, her long dark hair flowing loose to her waist. The newly wedded pair were a handsome couple, but Anne could tell that George wasn’t happy.
There were cheers at the wedding feast when Father stood up and announced that the King had granted George the manor of Grimston in Norfolk as a marriage gift. Anne felt aggrieved. It was not fair. The King had been generous to Father, and now to George. Why could he not show favor to her and recall her to court?
But when they returned to Hever, a letter bearing the Queen’s seal was waiting for her. She was to resume her post after Christmas.
1525
Anne sat quietly at the far end of the long oak table in the great hall at Eltham Palace, pretending to ignore the group of courtiers nearby. One, a tall, bearded young man with golden eyes and striking good looks, laid down his lute.
“I’ve written a poem!” he announced.
“Another one?” asked Sir Francis Bryan, who, for his rakishness, was known as the Vicar of Hell. The men ranged around them at the table laughed.
“There’s a surprise,” said George. “Come on, Tom, let’s hear it.”
The young man smiled at them diffidently. “This one is special.” He looked across at where Anne sat, sipping the last of her wine. It was for her, no doubt.