“What is he really like?” Anne demanded to know, irritation rising.
“I cannot tell you, for shame,” Jane whispered. Anne wondered what she meant. It must be something very personal and private, and she was not sure she wanted to know. There was no time anyway, for George, a towel around his neck, and his doublet slung over his shoulder, was emerging from the tennis play and waving, and suddenly Jane was no longer there. She had melted into the crowd.
George joined Anne, and Tom was suddenly at her side, asking if she had enjoyed the game. The three of them sat on the grass and shared out sugar comfits and wine, Anne having brought a stoppered flagon with her, which she passed around. She noticed Tom drinking from the place where her lips had been.
George was well aware of Tom’s feelings for her, and how she felt about the situation. He deftly diverted Tom with talk of poetry, a subject that interested them both.
“Recite your latest offering, George,” Tom encouraged.
“Not in your presence!” George told him. “I cannot compete with a master. Besides, the stuff I’ve written lately is rather mournful, and I would not darken this sunny day.”
“Jane was rather mournful after the tennis,” Anne said. “She as good as said that all is not well between you.”
George shrugged. “She’s right. Who would be happy with a shrew?”
She placed her hand on his. “Maybe she is shrewish because you are unkind to her, or do not love her enough.”
“She doesn’t want me,” he said.
“Oh yes she does. If she did not, she wouldn’t be jealous of the kindness between you and me.”
George stared at her. “But you’re my sister!”
“It does not matter,” Anne said. “She wants you to be as warm to her as you are to me.”
“Then she is asking for the moon.”
Tom gave a morose chuckle. “I know how she feels.”
“Dear Tom, you are a married man, and you know you cannot have me,” Anne said, as kindly as she could.
“My marriage is not happy either,” he reminded her. She had heard it before, many times. “My wife thinks nothing of flirting with other men—and worse, if the truth be told.”
“I wish mine would!” George muttered.
“You are not free!” Anne told Tom. “I am truly sorry that your marriage brings you no happiness, but I cannot be your mistress in any sense. Let us just stay friends, as we always have been.”
“Alas, it is not enough,” Tom lamented. “George knows.” Clearly George and Tom had confided in each other.
“Bad luck, Tom,” George commiserated. “Lord Rochford’s daughter must be above reproach when she takes a husband.” It was kindly said, but it was a warning nonetheless. George might see most women as fair game, but his sister was another matter entirely.
“I mean no disrespect,” Tom protested. “I hope you know that, Anne.”
George got to his feet, drained the flagon of its dregs, and handed it down to Anne.
“I must go and change,” he said. “Behave yourselves when I’m gone.” And with a grin he was off, striding across the grass.
Tom leaned across and took Anne’s hand. “I can’t help it if I am dazzled by your beauty and your wit,” he told her. “I would be tied to you forever in love. I am yours, Anne, whether you want me or not.”
She sighed. “Tom, it grieves me to have to reject all your talk of love. I am too fond of you to scorn you. But this must stop.”
Tom’s handsome face looked so tragic that she could have cried. He had a way of making her feel very special. She could never love him in the way she had loved Harry, but at least he had made her forget Harry. She had learned to live again and enjoy life. If only Tom was single, then she could, would have loved him.
“I have offered you my heart and service. Do not refuse me. At least allow me to live in hope,” he begged.
“What hope can you have?” she asked helplessly.
“Elizabeth might die”—he gave a mirthless laugh—“or I could divorce her for adultery.”
She stared at him. This was going way beyond the rules of the game. “Do you know how costly and difficult it is to get a divorce?” she asked. “You’d have to get the King’s consent to an Act of Parliament. As for dying, Elizabeth is twenty-two, the same age as you!”
“I have told her that I want a separation,” Tom revealed. “I am ready to ask the King about a divorce.” He was in a bullish mood now. “If he agrees, would you accept me then, Anne?”
She was staggered—and touched—that he would go so far. He seemed so determined. But there was little hope of his succeeding. She could not see his father, Sir Henry Wyatt, approving of his son being divorced, or paying for it. And Tom, she knew, had little money beyond his salary as Sewer Extraordinary to the King.
“Ask me when you are divorced,” she said lightly, smiling.
“Then I will live in hope!” Tom cried, taking her hand and kissing it fervently. “Give me a token, I pray you!”
“You’re still married, Tom!” Anne reproved him, but before she could stop him, he reached across and snatched a black lace that was hanging out of her pocket. Attached to it was a small jewel that she wore as a pendant.
“My token!” he cried. “A token of the love I know you bear me.”
“No! Give it back!”
Too late, they both became aware that a hush had fallen, and saw the King, at the center of his entourage of courtiers, staring at them, his expression inscrutable. They scrambled to their feet and made obeisance as he nodded and walked on.
Tom thrust his trophy into his doublet.
“Give it to me!” Anne insisted.
“No!” he said. “It is little enough to have of you. I will cherish it.”
She knew herself defeated. “Very well, keep it. It is of little worth.”
“It is worth all the world to me,” Tom said.
—
The following evening, when the tables had been cleared and removed, there was dancing in the presence chamber. A consort of musicians in the corner began playing, and the King rose, bowed to the Queen, and led her out. The courtiers watched admiringly as the royal pair performed a stately pavane, and then, at the King’s signal, they took to the floor themselves. George was among the throng, partnering a blond girl—Heaven knew where Jane was—and Henry Norris was with his wife, Mary. Anne was asked to dance by Sir Nicholas Carew, Master of the Horse and a friend of the King.
“I think we are related,” he told her. “About three or four generations back, through Lord Hoo.”
“I think everyone at court must be related in some way or other,” Anne replied, as they trod the stately measure. “Sometimes the court seems like one big family. It’s just a matter of degree.”
“I can’t say I see it like that,” Sir Nicholas laughed. “When you hear all the backbiting and see the cut and thrust of the intrigues—it’s a cesspit! Actually, that’s just like my family!”
She giggled, and then the dance was over, and Tom was before her, craving the pleasure. She let him lead her into an almain.