Читать книгу The Sixth Wife - Suzannah Dunn, Suzannah Dunn - Страница 6

I went a couple of weeks later, at Kate’s invitation, to dine with the newlyweds. This was to be it: Thomas’s formal introduction to me as Kate’s husband. No point in my putting it off; every point in getting it over with while making as little as possible of it. It had to be done. When my barge drew up, it was Elizabeth – unmistakable hair of Tudor gold – who greeted us. She just happened to be sitting on the riverbank steps. Holding a lute. Beneath her scarlet, ermine-edged cloak was a gown of deepest, plushest black; beneath that, a kirtle in cloth-of-gold. Oh, very picturesque. How had she managed to slip away alone, unattended? The gems on her hood’s border winked as she stood to give me a huge smile – ‘Hellooo!’ – but those Boleyn-black eyes searched my face. I was careful to show just as much enthusiasm as we chatted. You want to know why I distrust Elizabeth’s familiarity? Because it’s calculated. Those scanning eyes. Oh, I understand why - she’s spent her life on the outside, special to no one – but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Her standing back from all the bustle of mooring and unloading our barge gave the unfortunate impression that she owned the place. ‘Oh, well,’ she said eventually and offered up her lute, raised her faint eyebrows. ‘Already late for my lesson.’ Watching her go, I did soften a little. Because there was also something genuine there. Excitement. She was obviously pleased to be at Kate’s. Understandably. Quite something, it was, to be taken on by Kate.

It was something, though, to which her elder sister was objecting: this I discovered a little later, when Kate came with me to my room. Her old friend Princess Mary was refusing all contact with her, she confided dolefully. ‘Doesn’t like my having married Thomas so soon.’ So soon after her father’s death. She shrugged, helpless. It crossed my mind to say, I’m sorry to hear that; but then it crossed my mind that I wasn’t. I was pleased; it was a relief. That friendship of Kate and Mary’s was unfathomable to me. Mary is from the dark ages.

It was predictable that she’d have voiced an objection: she’s famous for her sense of protocol, as well as for her horribly complicated relationship with her father. Understandable, the latter: think of his adoration of her as his precocious little princess, then his savage rejection of her along with her mother before he welcomed her – minus dead mother – back into the fold. Poor Mary never knew whether she was coming or going, whether she loved him or loathed him. Her confusion persists and she’s touchy on the subject, to say the least. I don’t like her but even I’d say that, given how her father treated her, she should be dancing on his grave.

‘She’ll come round, I think,’ Kate said, cautiously. We could speak freely; my two ladies, Joanna and Nichola, were reacquainting themselves with Kate’s; Kate and I could barely hear each other over all the chatter. Bella had gone to the laundresses with my gown, which had snagged on something when we’d disembarked.

‘And Elizabeth herself has no problems with your having married Thomas?’

‘No, none. Although Mary suggested she should have. Wrote to her and said it’d be best if she didn’t live with me.’ Kate permitted herself a wry smile. ‘Well, you can imagine. Elizabeth knows her own mind. She answered to say she’d be staying.’ Now, a burst of enthusiasm: ‘Elizabeth loves it here, you know. And I love having her here, Cathy. She’s a real joy to have around. Such a clever, grown-up girl; it’s so good to see her flourishing.’

I felt she was going to say, She’s more like a daughter to me than any girl has ever been. Or perhaps, I see a lot of how I was in her. She said neither. But she could have said either. It struck me that I was envious; of which of them, I didn’t know.

I didn’t meet Thomas until we went into the hall for dinner. And then there he was: across the expanse of jewellike tiles with the cavernous fireplace ablaze behind him. Kate took my hand, led me towards him, presenting me to him and getting away with it before I’d quite noticed. He kissed the hand – my hand – and greeted me with just one word: ‘Cathy.’ My own name, yet somehow it made me shy.

When had I last seen him? Five years ago? He was forty now but looked no different from when I’d last glimpsed him. His years of being cut loose from England seemed to have done him no harm at all. On the contrary. In the candlelight, his face looked sculpted, his eyes adamantine and his hair like cloth-of-gold. Impeccably tailored, too, he was, with even the smallest pieces of fabric slashed to reveal, underneath, as linings, fabrics that were just as fine. A performance in itself, how he looked. Kate never stinted on clothing – her gown was cloth-of-silver – and to my surprise they made a good-looking pair that evening.

He was bowed over my hand when he said my name and never during that whole evening did he once look me in the eye. I’ll be frank: it’s not something I’m used to, not being looked at. Ours was an intimate gathering, too, or should have been: just Elizabeth and me at the top table with Kate and Thomas. Jane Grey had gone from evening prayers to bed, having one of her headaches, and all Kate’s ladies and my own two were assigned with Thomas’s men to a separate table which was set at an unusual angle from ours. As was the table for the senior members of the household such as Elizabeth’s governess, the men of the church and the girls’ tutor. Kate’s consort of viols was practically inaudible. Uproar, though, heralded the subtlety brought to our table at the end of the meal: knowing, congratulatory laughter for the sugar-sculpted, goldleaf-tabbied pair of cats – the bigger one presumably a tom – which were arching their backs, rubbing against each other.

For all the supposed intimacy of our table, Kate seemed like a stranger to me. Was it, perhaps, like when a girl sees her older sister with a friend? I wouldn’t know, sisterless as I am, but that’s how I imagine it. A whole new Kate was conjured up in front of my eyes. A Kate who was somehow more than Kate. Not the one I knew, and surely the one I knew was the real one. But this one was so convincing. Pretty much perfect, in fact. Looking back, I suppose I felt as if something was being kept from me and something was being shown to me. I felt betrayed and tolerated and favoured, all at once.

And as for Thomas…Well, Thomas is always Thomas, I’ve learned. That, if nothing else, can be said for him. He was good company, that evening, telling stories and making us laugh, me, Kate and Elizabeth. If you know no better, that’s how he seems: fun. Daring, even, because he tended to tease Kate and this was something I’d never seen. Kate, I realised, had never been teasable. For all that she could do for people, all that she could be, she wasn’t teasable. Not due to lack of humour or humility – she had both, in spades – but because teasing’s for taking, and Kate was a giver. But this, now, from Thomas, she had to sit back and take. I watched her warm to it; watched her rise to it, as required, then submit to it.

Kate wasn’t the only one to fall in with him. Elizabeth and I must share some blame, too. Thomas was a good judge of when he’d taken more than his fair share of time and attention – as storyteller, joker – and that was when, to keep us on an even keel, he’d switch our attention to Kate. That’s what he was doing when he teased her, turning us away from him so that we could return, minutes later, refreshed, ready for more. He was also calling up our affection for her and offering it to her on his terms, in his words alone: Our Kate, our girl, our queen. We were giving up our say in who she was, to us, Our Kate, our girl, our queen. We went along with him. I can see it in retrospect but at the time, as I say, he seemed good company, telling stories and making us laugh. Now I know that’s what Thomas does: he charms; he tells stories. To women.