He sprang out and, seeing me, gave a cry of pleasure, and came hurrying toward me. I quickly moved away, lest the bargeman should see our meeting. But Francis followed me.
“Katherine,” he called. “What ails you? Are you not pleased to see me?”
I turned and faced him. “Why have you come?” I demanded.
He looked amazed. “I have come to see you.”
“You should not have done so.”
“I do not understand.”
“It is over, Francis.”
“What say you?”
“That which was between us is no more.”
“Katherine! We are troth-plighted.”
“That was long ago.”
“Not so long. And what has that to do with it? I am husband to you and you are wife to me. You cannot have forgotten how it was between us.”
“It should not have been.”
“Katherine! My love! It was.”
I cried: “No, no. You must go away. It is over. We were too young. It was play.”
“Play!” he said. “It was not play for me.”
“It is over. You went away. That ended it.”
He was looking at me with utter desolation, and I was deeply sorry for him. He had really loved me. He was not like Manox. Oh, I could not bear to think of Manox. But to see my poor Francis looking so lost and sad made me want to weep. I must not relent though. Francis must go away. We must not return to that intimacy which we had once shared. What I wanted more than anything was that he should find another lover. It was all over between us two as far as he was concerned.
But all he could do was look at me with those sad, bewildered, yearning eyes, which assured me that he had always been my true and faithful lover.
“Francis,” I said. “I am sorry, but it is over. I love you no longer. I was only a child—I did not understand. I was fond of you, and it was all so exciting. Can you understand? Please, Francis. Will you fall in love with someone else?”
“I shall never do that… having known you,” he assured me.
How I should have loved to hear those words at one time. Now they filled me with alarm.
Francis Derham was really very daring. He was, of course, one of the Duke of Norfolk’s pensioners and he must have presumed that the Duke knew nothing of the reason for his sudden departure. He was evidently right, for the Duke made no objection to his return.
It was only the Duchess who knew, and she evidently decided that no good could arise from reviving the scandal.
I was sure that she could not be very happy about Derham’s return.
But there he was—back in the household, which made me very uneasy, for I could come face to face with him at any moment.
My fear was great when, shortly after Derham had returned, my grandmother sent for me and, in a state of great apprehension, I presented myself.
She was seated in her chair and, to my intense relief, beaming with pleasure.
She said: “Sit down. I have some good news for you. You are to have a place at Court.”
“At Court!” I cried. My first thoughts were: I shall not have to wonder whether Francis Derham is going to spring out on me at any minute. To Court! It was my nature to be able to forget unpleasantness and be quickly transported to blithe euphoria.
“You may well be joyful. ’Tis good news indeed. A chance for you, my child. You must make the most of it.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Oh, I will.”
She looked at me, nodding approval. “Stand up,” she said. “And come closer.”
I did so while she peered at me, assessing me.
“You are very small,” she said. “Some would say too small. But I am not so sure. You are slender withal and you have a certain grace. You look girlish … young for your years … and that has an appeal. You are fair enough. Light brown hair … curly and plenty of it. Good eyes … hazel … and those long dark lashes. Your nose is good … face round … childish … you are a worthy Howard.”
I was giggling with pleasure. To go to Court! To be away from Derham, and near Thomas Culpepper. I assured myself that I was deeply in love with Thomas Culpepper and soon there would be a betrothal—one which would have the approval of all.
“You are indeed fortunate,” she went on. “You owe this, of course, to your uncle. He has noticed you of late. He says your manners leave much to be desired, and he chides me for allowing your education to be neglected. But I fancy he thinks that one of the reasons why your cousin …” Her voice faltered as it always did at any mention of Anne Boleyn. But she went on quickly, for this was a happy occasion which must not be spoilt by unhappy memories.
“The Duke thinks that too much education can make a woman over-saucy, so he does not regret over-much the fact that you have none of that of which your cousin had too much. You are not without charm, and your looks favor you. So he decided to put your name forward and, as the King has not protested, there is a place for you. It is great good fortune. Unfortunately for the Queen, she does not regard it as such, to lose her own countrywomen and perforce take ours in exchange, but she is no fool and must know that when Queens come to new countries they must lose those attendants they brought with them and take others from their new country. So this is what is happening. The Queen’s ladies—those she brought with her—are being sent back and you are to be one of those who will replace them.”
I clasped my hands together in ecstasy. To serve the Queen, that poor neglected lady, to be at Court where everything happened, to be near Thomas Culpepper, who slept in the King’s chamber and was favored by him! I could hardly contain my happiness.
“I see you are overcome with joy, my child. That is right. So should you be. This is a happy day for you and for the family. It will be for you to show your uncle that he was right to put his faith in you.”
“I shall!” I cried.
“There. I am happy for you. You will do your best, I am sure.”
She was smiling at me. “And do not let this make you over-vain, child, for that would detract from your charm. But you are indeed a pretty child.”
I found the courage to ask: “And there will now be my betrothal?”
She looked a little puzzled.
“Your Grace mentioned to me that Thomas Culpepper …”
“Oh yes, yes. There was talk of a match between you two. Well, now this has come to pass, who shall say? It is not a matter to be decided rashly … in particular now. Your uncle will have other matters on his mind.”
I was a little disappointed, but nothing could spoil the prospect of this wonderful future which was opening out before me.
I wanted to run round telling everyone: “I am going to Court!”
Francis Derham came upon me in the garden. I suspected he had been watching for me. He caught my arm and angrily I wrenched it away from him.
“I have told you,” I cried. “Francis, please understand, it is all over. It is no more as it was.”
“I have heard that you are betrothed to a certain Thomas Culpepper.”
“When did you hear such a thing?”
“It was from one of the Duchess’s women. She had overheard it, she said. Is it true?”
“If she says I am betrothed, then she knows more than I do. As far as I know I am not betrothed to anyone.”
He looked relieved. “I could not bear that you should go to any other,” he said.
“Francis, do please understand. I am very sorry, but I no longer feel love for you.”
“You did love me. You said many times that you were my wife. You said that you would wait for my return.”
“It was all child’s play, Francis.”
“It was not to me.”
“Please leave me, Francis. I am going away… to Court. Please, please, let us forget what happened.”