So now she tried to goad him, longed for him to take her by the shoulders and shake her, that he might lay hands on her if only in anger. Perhaps he knew this, for he was diabolically clever and understood most uncomfortably the workings of minds less clever than his own. Therefore he sat, arms folded; looking at the pen stuck in the polished floor, bored by Jane, weary of the many scenes she created, and heartlessly careless of her feelings.
“George....”
He raised weary eyebrows in acknowledgment.
“I...I am so unhappy!”
He said, with the faintest hint of softness in his voice: “I am sorry for that.”
She moved closer; he remained impassive.
“George, what are you writing?”
“Just an airy trifle,” he said.
“Are you very annoyed that I interrupted?”
“I am not annoyed,” he replied.
“That pleases me, George. I do not mean to interrupt. Shall I get your pen?”
He laughed and, getting up, fetched it himself with a smile at her. Any sign of quiet reason on her part always pleased him; she struggled with her tears, trying to keep the momentary approval she had won.
“I
“It is of no matter,” he said. “I’ll warrant also that I should be the one to be sorry.”
“No, George, it is I who am unreasonable. Tell me, is that for the King’s masque?”
“It is,” he said, and turned to her, wanting to explain what he, with Wyatt, Surrey and Anne, was doing. But he knew that to be useless; she would pretend to be interested; she would try very hard to concentrate, then she would say something that was maddeningly stupid, and he would realize that she had not been considering what he was saying, and was merely trying to lure him to an amorous interlude. He had little amorous inclination towards her; he found her singularly unattractive and never more so than when she tried to attract him.
She came closer still, leaning her head forward to look at the paper. She began to read.
“It is very clever, George.”
“Nonsense!” said George. “It is very bad and needs a deal of polishing.”
“Will it be sung?”
“Yes, Anne will write the music.”
Anne! The very mention of that name destroyed her good resolutions.
“Anne, of course!” she said with a sneer.
She saw his eyes flash; she wanted to control herself, but she had heard the tender inflection of his voice when he said his sister’s name.
“Why not Anne?” he asked.
“Why not Anne?” she mimicked. “I’ll warrant the greatest musician in the kingdom would never write music such as Anne’s...in your eyes!”
He did not answer that.
“The King’s own music,” she said, “you would doubtless consider inferior to Anne’s!”
That made him laugh.
“Jane, you little fool, one would indeed be a poor musician if one was not more talented in that direction than His Majesty!”
“Such things as you say, George Boleyn, were enough to take a man’s head off his shoulders.”
“Reported in the right quarter, doubtless. What do you propose, sweet wife? To report in the appropriate quarter?”
“I swear I will one day!”
He laughed again. “That would not surprise me, Jane. You are a little fool, and I think out of your vindictive jealousy might conceivably send your husband to the scaffold.”
“And he would richly deserve it!”
“Doubtless! Doubtless! Do not all men who go to the scaffold deserve their fate? They have spoken their minds, expressed an opinion, or have been too nearly related to the King...all treasonable matters, my dear Jane.”
For this recklessness she loved him. How she would have liked to be as he was, to have snapped her fingers at life and enjoyed it as he did!
“You are a fool, George. It is well for you that you have a wife such as I!”
“Well indeed, Jane!”
“Mayhap,” she cried, “you would rather I
