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Authors: Diane Haeger
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beside her, another on the small bed opposite her own. For those who do not sleep with Her Grace, there are other rooms attached to the household where you will be able to rest alone.”
“And if the king desires to visit his wife for an evening?” Catherine could not resist asking, genuinely surprised that a woman so freshly wed would have a well-established system of sleeping companions with her ladies, and not her husband. But then she saw Frances and Margaret exchange another of their small, furtive glances.
“You really do not know?” Frances asked.
“Your uncle did not tell you that either?” Margaret Douglas chimed in.
“The king does not find that sort of pleasure in his wife’s company.”
A third voice came from behind her. The tone was sweet and young but as firm as the other two had been. Catherine pivoted around to see another woman of her approximate age in a compelling green satin dress, with a heart-shaped face. Catherine could see beneath the crown of her hood that her hair was pale yellow.
“But they were married not even four months ago.”
“Yes, and gossip is that Master Cromwell is about to pay for that particular mistake, in all likelihood rather dearly, if your uncle and my lord the Bishop of Winchester have anything to say about it.”
“Then why am I here to be added to her household if Anne of Cleves is not to have a household at all for much longer?”
“You really have been out in the country too long, haven’t you? Good luck at this court, with your lack of sophistication.” Frances chuckled before turning away and walking over to another table that held wine ewers and goblets.
“Oh, Frances, you needn’t be so harsh about it,” the third girl said. “I am Jane, Lady Rochford,” she continued, turning to Catherine. “And I do agree that you would do well to be cautious here.”
“I am discovering that rather swiftly.”
Viscountess Rochford. She knew the name. Of course, yes. Jane had been married to Anne Boleyn’s brother, George. Jane’s testimony against her own husband had helped send him to the block right beside Queen Anne. Catherine felt a shiver as she looked into the pretty, gentle face before her. These were not the simple girls of Horsham—that was for certain. She would need to be very cautious with everything she did and said from now on—most especially about whom she eventually chose to trust.
After the long trip and the trauma of being thrust into overwhelming opulence and a network of complicated relationships, that night Catherine found the solitude of her small antechamber
bedroom jarring. She longed for the sound of laughter, the reassuring movements in the dormitory of other women around her, and the comfort of predictability that was no longer a part of her life. Catherine sat alone on the small bed in a room no larger than her grandmother’s wardrobe. It was a drafty little space with a bed, a side table, a wardrobe closet, and walls unadorned but for the single oriel window. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. At the foot of the bed her trunk lay open. She caught sight of her mother’s chemise and the new blue French hood. She would wear them both tomorrow for her introduction, along with her mother’s silver chain and ruby.
And something else that had just arrived.
At the foot of the bed lay a suitably fashionable blue velvet gown to match the hood. The duke had made her wait for that. Another symbol of his total dominance over her, not only as the head of her family but also as the person who could tell her what to say, with whom to speak, and even what to wear.
Catherine laid her head on her knees and her loose auburn curls tumbled forward, hiding her tear-brightened eyes like a veil. She was meant to be here. It was the life her resourceful mother had hoped she would have. The life she might have had all along had she not been orphaned. Those days were gone, she told herself. And she tried
“And if the king desires to visit his wife for an evening?” Catherine could not resist asking, genuinely surprised that a woman so freshly wed would have a well-established system of sleeping companions with her ladies, and not her husband. But then she saw Frances and Margaret exchange another of their small, furtive glances.
“You really do not know?” Frances asked.
“Your uncle did not tell you that either?” Margaret Douglas chimed in.
“The king does not find that sort of pleasure in his wife’s company.”
A third voice came from behind her. The tone was sweet and young but as firm as the other two had been. Catherine pivoted around to see another woman of her approximate age in a compelling green satin dress, with a heart-shaped face. Catherine could see beneath the crown of her hood that her hair was pale yellow.
“But they were married not even four months ago.”
“Yes, and gossip is that Master Cromwell is about to pay for that particular mistake, in all likelihood rather dearly, if your uncle and my lord the Bishop of Winchester have anything to say about it.”
“Then why am I here to be added to her household if Anne of Cleves is not to have a household at all for much longer?”
“You really have been out in the country too long, haven’t you? Good luck at this court, with your lack of sophistication.” Frances chuckled before turning away and walking over to another table that held wine ewers and goblets.
“Oh, Frances, you needn’t be so harsh about it,” the third girl said. “I am Jane, Lady Rochford,” she continued, turning to Catherine. “And I do agree that you would do well to be cautious here.”
“I am discovering that rather swiftly.”
Viscountess Rochford. She knew the name. Of course, yes. Jane had been married to Anne Boleyn’s brother, George. Jane’s testimony against her own husband had helped send him to the block right beside Queen Anne. Catherine felt a shiver as she looked into the pretty, gentle face before her. These were not the simple girls of Horsham—that was for certain. She would need to be very cautious with everything she did and said from now on—most especially about whom she eventually chose to trust.
After the long trip and the trauma of being thrust into overwhelming opulence and a network of complicated relationships, that night Catherine found the solitude of her small antechamber
bedroom jarring. She longed for the sound of laughter, the reassuring movements in the dormitory of other women around her, and the comfort of predictability that was no longer a part of her life. Catherine sat alone on the small bed in a room no larger than her grandmother’s wardrobe. It was a drafty little space with a bed, a side table, a wardrobe closet, and walls unadorned but for the single oriel window. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. At the foot of the bed her trunk lay open. She caught sight of her mother’s chemise and the new blue French hood. She would wear them both tomorrow for her introduction, along with her mother’s silver chain and ruby.
And something else that had just arrived.
At the foot of the bed lay a suitably fashionable blue velvet gown to match the hood. The duke had made her wait for that. Another symbol of his total dominance over her, not only as the head of her family but also as the person who could tell her what to say, with whom to speak, and even what to wear.
Catherine laid her head on her knees and her loose auburn curls tumbled forward, hiding her tear-brightened eyes like a veil. She was meant to be here. It was the life her resourceful mother had hoped she would have. The life she might have had all along had she not been orphaned. Those days were gone, she told herself. And she tried
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