I said nothing. I could only think of what might happen to Francis.
She tired of railing against me at last, and when I begged leave to go, she granted it.
My body was sore and bruised, but my heart more so. This was what we had always feared. What would they do to Francis? That was the fear which dominated my mind. If only he had made that fortune! If only we could have been married.
It would not be so now. That was clear. My grandmother might well tell the Duke, and then what would they do to poor Francis?
The women were all subdued. They had been discovered. One of them had betrayed, not only me, but all of them. There would be no more deception about the unlocked door, no more nightly revels. And who knew what other secrets would be revealed?
One of the pages, whom I knew to be a friend of Francis, sought me out. He looked frightened and afraid to speak. I fervently hoped he had brought me news of Francis.
He said: “Mistress, I have a message for you. Will you go to a spot you know well in the gardens?”
I understood that what was meant was that spot secluded by bushes and trees not far from the water’s edge which Francis and I had called our own little garden. So I knew, of course, that this was a message from Francis. I hurried to the spot and within a few seconds he appeared. He was dressed as for a journey.
He held me tightly in his arms and we both wept.
Then he said: “I must go, Katherine. They will kill me if I stay. They will say that I have brought disgrace on the Howard name. Oh, my love, how can I leave you?”
“I have been beaten and reviled,” I said. “I do not think more will be done to me. They will not want it known.”
“I thank God for that,” he said. “But I must go … or they will find some way of killing me.”
“Then you must go quickly …”
“Some day I shall come back,” he said.
“Where shall you go?”
“I shall go to Ireland. There I shall make that fortune and return.”
“You will come back to me … ?”
“I swear it. And you, Katherine … ?”
I said fervently: “You shall never live to say to me, you have swerved.”
We clung together. I wanted to beg him not to go, but I knew he must. He wanted to beg me to go with him, but we knew that would be the final ruin of us both. This bitter parting had to be. But in my heart I knew that one day he would return.
The Fourth Queen
LIFE WAS VERY DULL after that. I missed Francis sadly, but I knew I must be grateful that he had escaped with his life. When I considered that, I realized the importance of what I had done.
There was strict surveillance throughout the household. One of the Duchess’s attendants—nearly as old as herself, on whom she could entirely rely—had the duty of locking and unlocking the door of the Long Room. The nights of revelry were at an end. We were given tasks to do and long hours were spent at needlework of some kind. A musical instrument might be played while we worked, or one of us would read aloud. While this was in progress, one of the Duchess’s older ladies would inspect us at any moment to make sure orders were being carried out.
The Duchess had had a shock which had aroused her to action, and she was determined to put an end to the careless manner in which her household had previously been conducted.
The new way of life had its effect on me. I listened to the music and surprised myself by becoming interested in the readings. My longing for Francis faded a little. I was thinking of other things than what I called to myself “romping.” That was a pleasant comfortable word, suggesting innocence.
One letter was smuggled into me from Francis. Dorothy Barwike brought it to me with a sly smile, so I knew she was aware whence it came.
“How did you get it?” I asked.
Dorothy could only say that it had been given to her by someone to whom it had in turn been given. It was not possible to say how it had arrived in Lambeth.
It was full of protestations of undying love. He was in Ireland and would soon be sailing off on a great adventure which he knew would be profitable: and when he returned, he would come to claim his wife. None should gainsay him then. He lived for that day.
I read it through again and again and thought of his coming home. Then we would marry.
My grandmother, who, immediately after that scene when she had beaten me so severely, had treated me with coldness and disgust, now relented a little.
She said to me one day: “My child, we will not talk of what happened. ’Tis best forgot.” Then she immediately began to talk of it. “It must be hushed up. Your uncle, the Duke, must never hear of it. No one must know.”
I thought of all those who did know. All those women who slept in the Long Room … and doubtless others.
“It would disturb the family,” she went on. “Your father would be distressed. It could prevent your sisters making good marriages. Your uncle would never forgive you.”
I tried to explain again that Francis and I were as husband and wife, and we only did what married people were entitled to do.
“Be silent,” she snapped. “You do not know what you say. You are a child. You know nothing of these matters. It was but child’s play.”
“Your Grace, Francis was my husband in very truth.”
I saw exasperation and fear in her expression. I was sure that, if I had been near enough, she would have struck me.
“Did I not say that we were not to speak of the matter?”
I nodded, not reminding her that it was she who had brought up the topic. But I knew how very deeply alarmed she was, for I too was understanding that what I had fallen into in a light-hearted way was, after all, a serious matter.
This was continually brought home to me in my conversations with my grandmother. I was once more rubbing her legs, and at such times she would continually stress the importance of the Howard family.
It was the old theme. “Oh, it is a wondrous thing to belong to a family such as ours. We have always been so close to the King, except on one or two occasions in our history, for we are by no means fools … except on those occasions when we seek to gratify our foolish desires and plunge near to disaster.” A significant look at me followed this remark. “But that is when we are young and too stupid to know better. And remember this, Katherine Howard, it behooves us all not to demean ourselves with those of low standing. We must always remember that we owe the utmost respect to the noble family to which we belong.”
I did not speak, but bent low over her leg, rubbing soothingly. I had always thought Francis so courtly, so handsome, comparable with the highest in the land, but all this insistence on the family’s greatness was making me think, well, he is, after all, only a pensioner of the Duke. I remembered him cringing before the Duchess when she slapped his face.
“I could see a good life for you, Katherine Howard,” went on my grandmother. “That is, if you are sensible. There might be a place at Court. Would you like that?”
I thought of the Court. Dancing, music, grand balls, beautiful gowns and money with which to buy them—not having to rely on a friend, or a lover. Mercy me! How much did I owe Francis Derham? How many ells of velvet and fine silks had he brought to me? That beautiful French fennel from the crooked old woman who made flowers for the Court ladies could not have been cheap, for she knew her worth. There had been other ornaments which Francis had delighted in giving me, and I had always said, “I will pay you when I have some money.” And he would laugh and kiss me and tell me how this or that became me. I should not have allowed it. A proud Howard should not have taken money from anyone—especially someone so far below her.