“You never could look like Anne.”
She flashed back: “It is not given to all of us to be perfect!”
“Anne is far from that.”
“What! Sacrilege! In your eyes she is perfect, if ever any woman was in man’s eyes.”
“My dear Jane, Anne is charming, rather because of her imperfections than because of her good qualities.”
“I’ll warrant you rage against Fate that you could not marry your sister!”
“I never was engaged in such a foolish discussion in all my life.”
She began to cry.
“Jane,” he said, and put a hand on her shoulder. She threw herself against him, forcing the tears into her eyes, for they alone seemed to have the power to move him. And as they sat thus, there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and these footsteps were followed by a knock on the door.
George sat up, putting Jane from him.
“Enter!” he called.
They trooped in, laughing and noisy.
Handsome Thomas Wyatt was a little ahead of the others, singing a ballad. Jane disliked Thomas Wyatt; indeed she loathed them all. They were all of the same caliber, the most important set at court these days, favorites of the King every one of them, and all connected by the skein of kinship. Brilliant of course they were; the songsters of the court. One-eyed Francis Bryan, Thomas Wyatt, George Boleyn, all of them recently returned from France and Italy, and eager now to transform the somewhat heavy atmosphere of the English court into a more brilliant copy of other courts they had known. These gay young men were anxious to oust the duller element, the old set. No soldiers nor grim counselors to the King these; they were the poets of their generation; they wished to entertain the King, to make him laugh, to give him pleasure. There was nothing the King asked more; and as this gay crowd circulated round none other than the lady who interested him so deeply, they were greatly favored by His Majesty.
Jane’s scowl deepened, for with these young men was Anne herself.
Anne threw a careless smile at Jane, and went to her brother.
“Let us see what thou hast done,” she said, and snatched the paper from him and began reading aloud; and then suddenly she stopped reading and set a tune to the words, singing them, while the others stood round her. Her feet tapped, as her brother’s had done, and Wyatt, who was bold as well as handsome, sat down between her and George on the window seat, and his eyes stayed on Anne’s face as though they could not tear themselves away.
Jane moved away from them, but that was of no account for they had all forgotten Jane’s presence. She was outside the magic circle; she was not one of them. Angrily she watched them, but chiefly she watched Anne. Anne, with the hanging sleeves to hide the sixth nail; Anne, with a special ornament at her throat to hide what she considered to be an unbecoming mole on her neck. And now all the ladies at the court were wearing such ornaments. Jane put her hand to her throat and touched her own. Why, why was life made easy for Anne? Why did everyone applaud what she did? Why did George love her better than he loved his wife? Why was clever, brilliant and handsome Thomas Wyatt in love with her?
Jane went on asking herself these questions as she had done over and over again; bitter jealousy ate deeper and deeper into her heart.
Wyatt saw her sitting by the pond in the enclosed garden, a piece of embroidery in her hands. He went to her swiftly. He was deeply and passionately in love.
She lifted her face to smile at him, liking well his handsome face, his quick wit.
“Why, Thomas...”
“Why, Anne...”
He threw himself down beside her.
“Anne, do you not find it good to escape from the weary ceremony of the court now and then?”
“Indeed I do.”
Her eyes were wistful, catching his mood. They were both thinking of Hever and Allington in quiet Kent.
“I would I were there,” he said, for such was the accord between them that they sometimes read the other’s thoughts.
“The gardens at Hever will be beautiful now.”
“And at Allington, Anne.”
“Yes,” she said, “at Allington also.”
He moved closer.
“Anne, what if we were to leave the court...together? What if we were to go to Allington and stay there...?”
“You to talk thus,” she said, “and you married to a wife!”
“Ah!” His voice was melancholy. “Anne, dost remember childhood days at Hever?”
“Well,” she answered. “You locked me in the dungeons once, and I declare I all but died of fright. A cruel boy you were, Thomas.”
“I! Cruel...and to you! Never! I swear I was ever tender. Anne, why did we not know then that happiness for you and me lay in the one place?”
