“Oh yes, sir!” Anne exclaimed. It was almost too much to take in.
“I would remind you that the competition for places in the Regent’s household is fierce, and there are many who are ready to offer substantial financial inducements to secure the honor of an appointment for their daughters. Each one of her filles d’honneur must know how to dress fashionably, be accomplished at dancing and singing, and be able to entertain her mistress and important visitors with witty conversation—and she must understand how to conduct herself when in attendance on the Regent in public and on state occasions.” Father leaned forward in his chair, his rugged face intent. “It was for such an opportunity as this that I provided you and Mary with a good education, although much Mary has profited from it. But you, Anne…you will shine. And I have no doubt that the considerable outlay required of me to provide you with suitable court attire will be well spent.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”
“You may go. It’s nearly time for dinner.”
—
Anne sped upstairs, still buzzing with excitement, to the chamber she shared with Mary, whom she found fastening around her neck the gold pendant in the shape of a bull that she always wore on important occasions. The girls had been given one each by their father; the bull was his family’s heraldic emblem, and a pun on its name.
Mary leaned into the mirror. Her black eyes, with their alluring slant, were watching Anne’s reflection.
Anne was savoring her news, wondering how to break it to Mary with maximum impact. She could no longer contain herself. “I’m going to court!” she announced.
Mary swung round, shock and fury in her face. “You?” she shrilled. “But—but I am the elder.”
“Father knows that, but the Regent asked for me.”
“The Regent?”
“I am summoned to the court of the Netherlands to serve her. It is a great honor to be asked. Father said so.”
“But what of me?” Mary’s lovely face was flushed with outrage. “Am I not to go too?”
“No. Father said he has other plans for you.”
“What plans?” Mary hissed.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will! He cannot pass me over like this.”
But he had. Anne hugged that delicious knowledge to herself. For the first time in her life, it felt good to be the younger and less beautiful sister.
—
Elizabeth Howard, Lady Boleyn, unraveled the bolt of tawny velvet and held it up against Anne.
“It suits you,” she said. The mercer standing respectfully at her side beamed. “We’ll have this one, and the good black, the yellow damask, and the crimson tinsel. Pray send your bill, Master Johnson.”
“Very good, my lady, very good,” the merchant replied, gathering up the fabrics that had been rejected and withdrawing from the parlor.
“I’m glad the Regent gave us good notice,” Mother said. “It allows us time to get these gowns made up. You should be grateful that your father has made such generous provision for you.” She tilted her daughter’s chin upward and smiled at her. “You have fine eyes, and innate grace,” she said. “You will do well and make me proud.” Anne’s heart was full. She loved her mother more than anyone else in the world.
Elizabeth Howard herself was dark in coloring, but her long Howard face was rounded with generous lips and fine eyes. In youth she had been a celebrated beauty, and the poet laureate, Master Skelton, had dedicated verses to her, likening her charms to those of the gorgeous Cressida of Troy. It was Mother’s little conceit. Her great conceit was her pride in her aristocratic lineage. She let no one forget that she came of the noble House of Howard, and it was no secret that, had her family not been in royal disfavor at the time, plain Thomas Boleyn, as he then was, could never have aspired to marry her, even though his grandsire was the Earl of Ormond. But with her father stripped of his titles and not long released from the Tower for fighting on the wrong side in the battle that had put the late King Henry on the throne, her chances of making a decent marriage had been slender; and so she had permitted herself to be tied to a young and ambitious man whose recent ancestors had been in trade.
But thanks to that, the Boleyns were rich. By dint of their business acumen and by marrying wealthy heiresses, they had steadily acquired wealth and lands. Anne’s great-grandfather, Sir Geoffrey, had been a mercer like the fellow who had recently departed with his wares, but he had risen to be Lord Mayor of London and been knighted. That was the way one made good in the world, and it was new and able men such as the Boleyns, rather than the old nobility, who were now favored by the young King Henry.
But for all that Father had done—and was still doing—to make himself a suitable husband in the eyes of his high-and-mighty in-laws, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, even her children’s, that Mother had married beneath her.
“You will be the equal of any of the other maids,” she said to Anne now. “You can be justly proud of your Howard ancestry. Remember, we Howards are descended from King Edward Longshanks and from all the English monarchs back to William the Conqueror, so you have royal blood in your veins and must be worthy of it.”
“Yes, Mother,” Anne said, bobbing a curtsey. She walked slowly back to her bedchamber, thinking on what Lady Boleyn had said. She was deeply proud of her heritage, especially now that the Howards had been rehabilitated and were firmly back in favor at court. In the long gallery she paused before a portrait of Grandfather Howard, the Earl of Surrey. She was in awe of this just and honest aristocrat, the head of the family, and of his son, whose picture was further along—Uncle Thomas, her mother’s brother, a stern-faced, no-nonsense soldier and courtier. She had only a few memories of his wife, the aunt for whom she herself had been named, but she could never forget that the late Princess Anne of York had been daughter to King Edward IV and sister to the present King’s mother. It made King Henry her own cousin, in a sort of way.
Anne had long been aware that any love her parents might have had for each other in the beginning had long since died, for they avoided each other as much as possible. It was easy to understand why Mother looked down on Father. What was more difficult to comprehend was why Father treated Mother, that highly prized bride, with ill-disguised contempt.
It disturbed Anne that Mother had once been compared to the Trojan beauty Cressida. For, having pledged her undying love for Prince Troilus, Cressida, cruelly captured by the Greeks, had treacherously betrayed him with the heroic Diomedes. Father Davy had read them the story when they had studied the Greek myths.