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Authors: Elizabeth Fremantle
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into our coifs. I like it when Katherine helps me into my clothes, for she is accustomed to my odd shape and touches me as little as possible. Even sweet Peggy Willoughby, when she helps me dress, cannot hide her curiosity, and I can sense the effort she makes not to stare at my strange shape.
“ And Cousin Margaret is to marry,” Katherine announces, as if she is thinking out loud. I had heard of Margaret Clifford’s betrothal, but hadn’t wanted to say anything for fear of upsetting my sister. “Henry Stanley, Lord Strange—a strange match indeed,” she huffs. “That boy can’t keep his hands to himself. She’s welcome to him.”
I say nothing; there is nothing to say when Katherine has a bee in her bonnet.
“And Maman!” She bangs a fist to her knee, and the remains of the toddy tip onto the floor so that Stan and Stim clamor to get their tongues to it. “What could she possibly see in Stokes? Who is he, anyway?”
“He is a kind man,” I say, regretting it instantly for it pricks her further.
“Kind,” she says, as if the word tastes bitter. “He is not even . . .” She doesn’t bother to finish.
“I wish you could accept it, Kitty, for it will happen whether you rail against it or not. And besides, Maman seems happier these days, do you not think?”
“Pah!” she exclaims, pulling Stan up onto her lap, holding hisface to hers, saying in a baby voice, “You don’t like it either, do you, Stannie?”
I stand and go to the window. “The rain has stopped.” I make a squiggle with my finger on the misted glass.
“ And ,” Katherine continues her griping, “that Feria, you’ve seen him, Mouse, the Spaniard . . . the comely one . . . He has his eye on Jane Dormer. Not that she’d notice . . . They all want to wed Jane Dormer. Thomas Howard moons at her constantly.” She shrugs off her gown, letting it fall to the floor, and chooses another, slipping it on, smoothing it down. Then she picks up one of Maman’s necklaces, clipping it at her throat, taking the glass and inspecting herself in it, turning her head this way and that and pursing her lips, then says with a sigh, “All the Queen’s maids will be wed and I shall be left alone on the shelf.”
“You are only just fifteen. Hardly an old maid yet. Besides, I will be on the shelf with you, so you will not be alone.”
“I am sorry, Mouse,” she says, pushing Stan to the floor and rushing to the casement, where she sits on the window seat so we are the same height and holds out her little finger for me to take. “I wasn’t thinking; it was unkind of me to be so concerned with my own woes when . . .” She doesn’t say it, but what she means is, when I am too deformed to be of interest to anyone at all, ever.
She slides her wedding ring off, saying, “Here.” Then she lifts my hand very gently and slips it onto my middle finger. “You have pretty hands and a pretty face, and you may be small of stature but you have great intelligence; and you may be crooked but you are good and kind.” She pauses, and I can see that there are tears welling again in the corners of her eyes. “ I am not good and kind. You are worth a dozen of me.”
As she is saying this I have a teary feeling in the back of my throat. I am not one for crying much, but my sister’s tenderness is making me go soft inside.
“ And ,” she adds, “there is Claude, who was Queen of France once. Have you not heard of her? She was crookbacked like you and she was married to King François . . . and she was boss-eyed to boot.”
I nod, taking a breath to quell my feelings. I am not sure that I want to know about Queen Claude of France, for knowledge of a crookbacked queen makes me feel less safe in my skewed body.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But she was mother to the next King of France and in France they named the greengage after her.”
“The greengage,” I repeat, thinking how ordinary a
“ And Cousin Margaret is to marry,” Katherine announces, as if she is thinking out loud. I had heard of Margaret Clifford’s betrothal, but hadn’t wanted to say anything for fear of upsetting my sister. “Henry Stanley, Lord Strange—a strange match indeed,” she huffs. “That boy can’t keep his hands to himself. She’s welcome to him.”
I say nothing; there is nothing to say when Katherine has a bee in her bonnet.
“And Maman!” She bangs a fist to her knee, and the remains of the toddy tip onto the floor so that Stan and Stim clamor to get their tongues to it. “What could she possibly see in Stokes? Who is he, anyway?”
“He is a kind man,” I say, regretting it instantly for it pricks her further.
“Kind,” she says, as if the word tastes bitter. “He is not even . . .” She doesn’t bother to finish.
“I wish you could accept it, Kitty, for it will happen whether you rail against it or not. And besides, Maman seems happier these days, do you not think?”
“Pah!” she exclaims, pulling Stan up onto her lap, holding hisface to hers, saying in a baby voice, “You don’t like it either, do you, Stannie?”
I stand and go to the window. “The rain has stopped.” I make a squiggle with my finger on the misted glass.
“ And ,” Katherine continues her griping, “that Feria, you’ve seen him, Mouse, the Spaniard . . . the comely one . . . He has his eye on Jane Dormer. Not that she’d notice . . . They all want to wed Jane Dormer. Thomas Howard moons at her constantly.” She shrugs off her gown, letting it fall to the floor, and chooses another, slipping it on, smoothing it down. Then she picks up one of Maman’s necklaces, clipping it at her throat, taking the glass and inspecting herself in it, turning her head this way and that and pursing her lips, then says with a sigh, “All the Queen’s maids will be wed and I shall be left alone on the shelf.”
“You are only just fifteen. Hardly an old maid yet. Besides, I will be on the shelf with you, so you will not be alone.”
“I am sorry, Mouse,” she says, pushing Stan to the floor and rushing to the casement, where she sits on the window seat so we are the same height and holds out her little finger for me to take. “I wasn’t thinking; it was unkind of me to be so concerned with my own woes when . . .” She doesn’t say it, but what she means is, when I am too deformed to be of interest to anyone at all, ever.
She slides her wedding ring off, saying, “Here.” Then she lifts my hand very gently and slips it onto my middle finger. “You have pretty hands and a pretty face, and you may be small of stature but you have great intelligence; and you may be crooked but you are good and kind.” She pauses, and I can see that there are tears welling again in the corners of her eyes. “ I am not good and kind. You are worth a dozen of me.”
As she is saying this I have a teary feeling in the back of my throat. I am not one for crying much, but my sister’s tenderness is making me go soft inside.
“ And ,” she adds, “there is Claude, who was Queen of France once. Have you not heard of her? She was crookbacked like you and she was married to King François . . . and she was boss-eyed to boot.”
I nod, taking a breath to quell my feelings. I am not sure that I want to know about Queen Claude of France, for knowledge of a crookbacked queen makes me feel less safe in my skewed body.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But she was mother to the next King of France and in France they named the greengage after her.”
“The greengage,” I repeat, thinking how ordinary a
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