“His heart was broken.”
“But that was not her fault.”
“What do you know of love, Mistress Katherine?”
“Very little, I suppose.”
“But you would learn very quickly.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I see that in you. There is much that you know and do not realize you know. I saw it the first moment we met.”
I managed to say: “ ’Tis a strange way to talk, Henry Manox, and in a way which is not connected with music.”
“It is connected with music, and everything else around us. The world would stop, dear Katherine, if it were not for love.”
He laid his hand over mine and suddenly lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
I did not know what I should say, and at that moment Isabel came in.
She said: “The music lesson has been long this morning.”
“Mistress Katherine amazes me so much with her talent that I am apt to forget the time.”
Isabel laughed. “Come, Mistress Katherine Howard,” she said. “You must tear yourself from the lute, the virginals and the musician, I fear. It is time to eat.”
Henry Manox stood up and bowed, and Isabel, smiling to herself, took my arm and drew me away.
That night, I was awakened by revelry in the Long Room, and, peeping through the curtains, I saw Isabel and, sitting on her bed was a young man whom I had never seen before. He was kissing her and she was looking very happy.
It was the usual scene—the laughter, the giggling, the banter. Isabel knew that I watched them through the bed curtains. Some of the others did, also.
I knew this because I had heard Isabel tell Dorothy Barwike, a young woman who had come from a village nearby, and who had joined the household only recently.
Dorothy had said: “You take great risks. Katherine Howard knows. I have seen her looking out through her bed curtains. What if she were to tell the Duchess?”
“Katherine will not tell,” Isabel had replied. “She has promised not to. She doesn’t altogether understand. She is only a child really. Young for her years in some ways. I know she has that air, in a way. I don’t know what it is. She is so little and slender, but there is something. In spite of her youth, she is almost a woman in some ways, if you know what I mean. She may not have the book-learning, but she’s got something else. She likes to watch, so she’s part of it in a way. She would not tell.”
“Well, don’t forget, she’s a Howard.”
They had laughed.
“Great ladies!” Dorothy had said. “They can be as bad as the rest of us. Often worse.”
That was all I had heard of that conversation. I wished I had heard more, but eavesdropping is often unsatisfactory. Conversations are cut off when they become the most interesting.
I talked to her about the young man I had seen with her.
“He was kissing you, and you seemed very closely entwined with each other. I was surprised.”
“People who spy often get surprises!”
“Spy!” I cried. “I am no spy.”
“What else? Let me tell you this, Mistress Howard. The young man who was with me that night had every right to be there. He is my affianced husband.”
“You are going to marry him!”
“Soon now.”
“I did not know him.”
“He is not of the household. He is a farmer. When I marry, I shall leave this household.”
“You mean go away from here?”
“Of course.”
“But who will be my friend?”
“There are many here who will be friends to you if you will with them. The Duchess has said that Dorothy Barwike will take my place when I go.”
“And the man you are going to marry is allowed to come here at night to be with you?”
“Hush, Mistress Howard. You are but a child. You do not understand these matters.”
I was mildly irritated that, when I asked people to explain something to me, they often began by telling me I was a child so could not understand.
She sighed and went on: “He comes at night because I arranged that he shall. We are to be married, so it is best that he should be with me.”
“And no other,” I said.
She looked at me sharply, and I thought she was going to say again that I was too young to understand, but she changed her mind and gave me a little push.
“You must tell no one,” she said. “You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
I was really too worried to learn that she was going away to think of much else.
Later I heard another scrap of conversation between Isabel and Dorothy.
Dorothy said: “Katherine Howard is growing up. It may be that she knows a little more of what is going on than she admits. I declare you should be careful. If the Duchess knew, she would have to bestir herself, much as she would like to forget all about it.”
That was all I heard, but I thought about it a great deal.
One day Isabel said to me: “You are getting on very well with your music.”
I smiled, gratified. “I can play the virginals well, Master Manox says. And if I am not quite as good with the lute, he says I shall be in time.”
“You are very happy with your music teacher, I believe,” went on Isabel.
“Oh yes. He is a good teacher.”
“So I understand. But what does he teach you beside the virginals and the lute?”
“What should he? Perhaps to sing a little?”
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, take no heed of what I say. I think he is very handsome.”
“Oh yes, is he not? He looks very graceful when he plays the lute. He is like a statue I have seen somewhere.”
“He admires you very much.”
“He says I am a good pupil.”
“Oh, it is more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He thinks you are beautiful. I wonder … but perhaps, you would not want to … it would be an opportunity …”
“What are you talking about, Isabel?”
“About you and Henry Manox. Would you not like to talk to each other … not always at the music lesson?”
“Well, yes, I would. I always enjoy talking to Henry Manox.”
“Then why do you not? I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Well, for you and Henry to see more of each other, to improve your acquaintance apart from music lessons, I mean. Why don’t you ask him to one of the evenings … ?”
“You mean … ?”
“Why should you not? You are growing up. You have a good friend. You could ask him to come one evening … when the others do. Why not?”
She was looking at me eagerly, and I knew she was urging me to agree to this.
“How … ?” I began.
“It is simple. You write to Henry Manox, asking him to come to the Long Room when the household has retired.”
It was surprising that the first difficulty that presented itself to me was the writing of this invitation.
I said: “I am not good with the pen.”
“I will help you,” said Isabel. “We shall do it together.” So we did, and the note was sent to Henry Manox.
They had drawn back the bed curtains. They were all very pleased to see this and they clustered round my bed laughing and all talking at once.
“Well, I feel no surprise.”
“She is so pretty.”
“Too pretty to spend her nights looking out through her bed curtains.”
“And Henry Manox is coming.”
“He is very handsome.”
“And skilled in music.”
“And in more besides, I’ll warrant.”
When he arrived, every one of them welcomed him, but he was not interested in any of them—only in me.