I think my grandmother might have noticed the deficiencies if she had been more aware of me. But how could she have been expected to, with one other granddaughter taking up so much of her thoughts?
We eagerly awaited the birth of Jane Seymour’s child. The question everyone was asking was, will it be a boy? Would there be another disappointment? People talked of little else. Some whispered, and if not, how long will it be before Queen Jane follows Queen Anne? That scene on Tower Hill was too recent to be forgotten easily.
It seemed all was well. Oh joy! Oh jubilation! The child was a boy and the King’s dearest wish had been granted. At last, he had a son—a legitimate heir to the throne!
There must be rejoicing throughout the land. Alas, the Queen was in a sorry state. The doctors shook their heads in dismay, but even so the King could not hide his delight, for it was believed that the boy would live, if not his mother.
The child must be baptized at once, even though the doctors assured the King that he would survive. No chances must be taken. Poor Jane, how ill she must have been, exhausted, craving rest, too tired to enjoy her triumph in succeeding where her predecessors had failed.
The boy was to be named Edward. I heard accounts of his baptism: how he was taken from his nursery in Hampton Court to his mother’s chamber, accompanied by the sound of trumpets, while poor Jane lay there, pale, wan, desperately trying to take part in the ceremonial ritual. It lasted for three hours and at the end of it Jane was in no condition to understand what was happening.
The King, however, insisted on her presence. They said he could not take his eyes from the baby Prince, who behaved with impeccable good manners throughout the proceedings and gave only the occasional whimper.
Poor Jane! She never recovered from the ceremony. So died the perfect wife. Not only had she produced the longed-for son, but she had had the good grace to die before the King had tired of her.
He could now ask himself where he could find a new wife.
Queen Jane was taken from Hampton Court to Windsor for her burial.
It was a day of mourning. The people were in the streets, and we must be among them. There were masses to be said and hymns to be sung in St. Paul’s Cathedral, where, a day or so before, there had been rejoicing over the birth of an heir.
There would be no revelry, of course, which was a pity, and even the rejoicing on the baby’s birth had to be subdued because of his mother’s death; but nevertheless it was an occasion for an outing.
So, with Joan, Dorothy and Mary Lassells, and some of the others from the band of Norfolk pensioners, I boarded the barge at the privy stairs and we sailed down the river to the City.
There were crowds in the streets and, after leaving the barge at Westminster stairs, we walked through the press of people to St. Paul’s.
The cathedral was overflowing and we remained among the crowds outside, and it was there that I saw him.
He was standing before me, staring in undisguised delight. Then he took off his hat and bowed low. I was tingling with excitement.
“Mistress Katherine Howard!” he cried. “Oh fie! Do you not know me?”
I was never subtle. I cried out: “Of a surety I know you. You are Francis Derham. You gave me the silk rose.”
“Well met.”
I could think of nothing to say but: “So … you are back.”
“Yesterday noon. I have been seeking you ever since.”
“You remembered. It is long.”
“Did I not say I would never forget?”
“You said you would come back.”
“That is what I meant. What do you here? Come to sing hymns of sadness for the Queen?”
I nodded.
“I am on the same mission. But chiefly to look for you.”
Joan and Dorothy were listening with some curiosity.
“You remember them?” I asked.
“Well met, Mistresses,” he said, bowing first to Joan and then to Dorothy. But I knew he had not remembered them, and I was rather pleased about that.
“You came with a party?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes. But I am begging to be allowed to join yours.”
Joan and Dorothy laughed. I could see they liked him. He was so handsome and charming that it would have been difficult not to like him.
He walked along with us and slipped an arm through mine. He told me how often he had thought of me during those long absences when he was far away.
“Where?” I asked.
“Too far from you,” was the answer, which made me laugh happily.
“And now that you are back, shall you stay?”
He looked at me soulfully and, pressing my arm, said: “I could stay with you forever.”
We were seeing each other often, and it was very soon after that meeting at St. Paul’s that he told me he loved me and had done so from the moment he had seen me making the silk rose in the gardens.
“You were such a little girl then,” he said. “You are still a little girl, but methinks you have grown up somewhat since then.”
“I am much older,” I assured him.
“You will always be young to me. My little girl.”
We progressed quickly from there. He told me he would love me until the day he died. It was a time of enchantment, and he sought to please me in every way.
Naturally I wanted to look my best, and it was no easy task for I had very little money. It was only now and then that my grandmother would remember my existence; then she gave me little more than a coin or two to buy something I fancied.
She had changed since the death of Anne. She was more serious. Sometimes she would look at me sharply, as though considering me; but that was rare; more often, she lapsed into the old style of ignoring me.
The Court ladies, whom I glimpsed now and then, were now wearing silk flowers again. The favorite was the French fennel—a sort of love-in-the-mist—most beautiful, and worked in various colors. It was the very ornament to enhance the beauty of a gown and bring out the color of a lady’s eyes and soften her face.
I longed for a French fennel and was saving up my money to buy one.
When Francis discovered this, he said: “Once it was a red rose, now it is a fennel. I know a woman … a little hunchback in London. She is said to make the most exquisite flowers in the world. What if I asked her to make one for you?”
“Is she very expensive?”
“She knows her worth, and the ladies of the Court acclaim her.”
“Alas, I could not afford it.”
“Then I shall buy it for you.”
“And when I have some money, I shall insist on paying you back.”
“Insist if you must, but in the meantime, you shall have your French fennel.”
I was delighted when he brought it to me. It was blue and the feathery leaves were very attractive. I put it on, and was even more enchanted. Then I thought of what my grandmother’s reaction would be, for she could not fail to notice it. She would ask questions. She would know I could not afford to buy a flower like that, and she would discover how it was between Francis and me, and I knew there would be disapproval. She might even tell my father, or perhaps the Duke. They would remember that I was a member of the Howard family and, after what had happened to Anne, they would be especially careful.
I looked at my beautiful French fennel and wept. It must not be known that I was in love with Francis Derham.
Lady Brereton came to visit us; she was worldly and friendly, but rather sad at this time, for a relative of hers had been accused of being one of my cousin’s lovers and had been executed with her. She noticed the friendship between Francis and me and told me what an attractive young man she thought him. She was sure he would do well at Court. She was the kind of person with whom one could share confidences, and I was soon telling her about the French fennel.