“Her name has become a byword for a faithless woman,” the good friar had said. Anne stifled a gasp. Clearly he did not know what Skelton had written of her mother. The five of them—Tom and Henry had been at home then—had looked at one another, appalled.
Yet Anne had never heard of any hint of a blemish on Mother’s reputation. Lady Boleyn presided over her household with competent authority, and preferred country life to the teeming existence of the court, although she did sometimes go there when needed as an occasional lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine.
At home Anne and Mary helped Mother in her still room, where they made comfits and jams while she distilled sweet waters or prepared medicines and poultices from the herbs they had gathered in the gardens.
“It is essential that you both learn the skills that will enable you to run a great house,” she was always reminding them. “A lady should keep her servants busy not only by precept, but by example.” But if Anne might happen to glance up from what she was doing, she would occasionally surprise Mother with her hands idle, a faraway look on her face and a tune playing on her smiling lips, as if she had withdrawn into a secret life. And again she would wonder if her mother had a lover.
—
The months that she had envisaged dragging sped by. Expensive tutors were engaged to give her and Mary advanced instruction in singing and dancing, skills that Anne acquired easily and enjoyed.
“Bravo!” cried the tutor, as she twirled and leapt and skipped in branles, farandoles, and basse dances. It came easily to her, as if she had been born to it. Mary, who was all arms and legs at awkward angles, would glower at her. Father had not revealed what his plans for Mary were, and Anne now doubted that he had any, while Mary’s angry jealousy simmered and often bubbled over. Thrown together as the sisters were, it did not make for a peaceful existence.
Sir Thomas, however, was impervious. Anne was to go into the world as his ambassador, a walking testimonial to his greatness. If there was any talent that might be useful at court, she was to acquire it. Father Davy was deputed to enhance her musical skills.
“You have a true voice,” he said, and Anne thrilled to hear it, for his praise was never won lightly.
He also encouraged Anne and George’s love of poetry. The two of them would sit together for hours composing and transcribing verses and binding them into books. Father Davy told Anne she had a rare talent for it, especially for a woman. He refrained from remarking on how Mary thought that cow rhymed with low.
In these months in which her wardrobe was being prepared, Anne became an expert embroiderer. She made biliments to edge necklines and hoods, quilted sleeves and pouches, and decorated her lawn night rails in bright scarlets and greens. She discovered the pleasure of enhancing her clothes with novel details: a border here, a contrasting color there, and—always—long hanging sleeves to hide her extra nail. Her nurse, Mrs. Orchard, a plump, motherly soul who had been with her since birth and was to accompany her as chaperone on her journey, did all the plain sewing, stitching and hemming under-smocks and petticoats. As the weeks went by, the pile of finished garments stowed in Anne’s new traveling chest grew and grew.
In the autumn, Father returned to the court of the Netherlands, leaving Mother in charge of the preparations for Anne’s departure.
“Remember,” he said to Anne before he left, “your task is to perfect the attributes that will secure you a good marriage. I have had you educated to that purpose, and to instill virtue.” Father was very zealous on virtue. He was always warning his daughters of the dire consequences—mostly for him—if they fell from it. They were his assets—his jewels, as he liked to put it—and their success was essential to him.
—
In these last months at Hever, Anne found herself resenting the dull routine. She longed for her escape into the glamorous world of courts. She and Mary found their chief excitement in putting on their best gowns and, escorted by a groom and a maid, riding the three miles into nearby Edenbridge for the market that was held there every Thursday, just to show off their finery. When they were not at lessons or sewing, they played cards, or visited the houses of neighbors with their mother—and fought constantly over silly things until Lady Boleyn lost patience and sent them to their rooms to cool down.
Their existence was dominated by the unchanging round of the seasons. That autumn of 1512 was heralded as usual by Michaelmas, soon followed by Harvest-tide, when St. Peter’s Church by the castle was filled with ears of wheat and hymns of thanksgiving. That was the grease season, when all the local gentry went hunting. Father had ensured that Anne and Mary were both competent horsewomen, and they were allowed to participate in the chase or go hawking in the company of their neighbors. In the evenings they savored the rich game from their bag, served on thick bread trenchers saturated with meat juices.
On wet days they took their exercise in the long gallery above the great hall, a newfangled improvement to the castle that Father had decided he must have. Up and down his daughters walked, past the pictures and hangings that adorned the walls, bickering and gossiping and occasionally slapping and pinching each other.
As autumn fell, fires and braziers were lit, and the castle was filled with the sweet aroma of beeswax candles. The three young Boleyns played cards, dice, and chess in the flickering light, or teased each other with riddles, before tumbling into their feather beds. On many nights Anne lay awake, with the damask bed curtains pulled back and the moonlight glinting on the diamond-paned windows, imagining the glittering life to come in the magnificent court that lay miles across the sea in another land.
Hard on the heels of All Souls, when the nights were dark and ghosts were said to walk in the woodland that faced the castle, came the season of Advent, followed by the Christmas and Twelfth Night celebrations. Before Anne knew it, it was Candlemas, then Lady Day—and soon it would be May Day, when she and Mary always observed the ancient custom of rising early to bring in the May blossoms. With the May came Father, back from the Netherlands.
It was time, at last, for her to depart.
1513-1514