Catherine was wont to lie in bed on those nights when there were no visitors to the dormitory and ask herself what she would do were the Duchess to decide not to take Manox. Catherine loved Manox because she needed to love someone; there were two passions in Catherine’s life; one was music, and the other was loving. She had loved her mother and lost her; she had loved Thomas Culpepper, and lost him; now she loved Manox. And on all these people had she lavished unstintingly her capacity for loving, and that was great. Catherine must love; life for her was completely devoid of interest without love. She enjoyed the sensational excitement of physical love in spite of her youth; but her love for Manox was not entirely a physical emotion. She loved to give pleasure as well as to take it, and there was nothing she would not do for those she loved. All that she asked of life was to let her love; and she was afraid of life, for it seemed to her that her love was ill-fated; first her mother, then Thomas Culpepper, now Manox. She was terrified that she would have to go to Lambeth without Manox.
There came a day when she could no longer bear the suspense. She asked her grandmother outright.
“Grandmother, what of my lessons at Lambeth?”
“What of them, child?”
“Shall Henry Manox accompany us, that he may continue to instruct me?”
The Duchess’s reply sent a shiver down her spine.
“Dost think I would not find thee a teacher at Lambeth?”
“I doubt not that you would, but when one feels that one can do well with one teacher. . . .”
“Bah! I know best who will make a good teacher. And why do you bother me with lessons and teachers? Dost not realize that this is to be the coronation of your own cousin Anne!”
Catherine could have wept with mortification, and her agony of mind continued.
Manox came often to the dormitory.
“Do you think I could ever leave you?” he asked. “Why, should you go to Lambeth without me I would follow.”
“And what would happen to you if you so disobeyed?”
“Whatever the punishment it would be worth it to be near you, if but for an hour!”
But no! Catherine would not hear of that. She remembered the tales Doll Tappit had gleaned of Walter the warder. She remembered then that, though she ran wild through the house and her clothes were so shabby as to be almost those of a beggar, she was Catherine Howard, daughter of a great and noble house, while he was plain Henry Manox, instructor at the virginals. Though he seemed so handsome and clever to her, there would be some —and her grandmother and her dreaded uncle the Duke among them—who would consider they had done great wrong in loving. What if they, both, should be committed to the Tower! It was for Manox she trembled, for Catherine’s love was complete. She could endure separation, but not to think of Manox’s body cramped in the Little Ease, or rotting, and the food of rats in the Pit. She cried and begged that he would do nothing rash; and he laughed and said did she not think he did something rash every night that he came to her thus, for what did she think would happen to him if her grandmother were to hear of their love?
Then was Catherine seized with fresh fears. Why must the world, which was full of so many delights, hold so much that was cruel! Why did there have to be stem grandmothers and terrifying uncles! Why could not everybody understand what a good thing it was to love and be loved in this most exciting and sensational way which she had recently discovered!
Then Catherine found the world was indeed a happy place, for when she left for Lambeth in her grandmother’s retinue, Manox was in it too.
Lambeth was beautiful in the spring, and Catherine felt she had never been so completely happy in her life. The fruit trees in the orchards which ran down to the river’s brink were in blossom; she spent whole days wandering through the beautiful gardens, watching the barges go down the river.
With Manox at Lambeth, they were often able to meet out of doors; the Duchess was even more lax than she had been at Horsham, so busy was she with preparations for the coronation. Anne visited her grandmother, and they sat together in the garden, the Duchess’s eyes sparkling to contemplate her lovely granddaughter. She could not resist telling Anne how gratified she was, how lucky was the King, and how, deep in her heart, she had ever known this must happen.
Catherine was brought to greet her cousin.
“Your Majesty remembers this one?” asked the Duchess “She was doubtless but a baby when you last saw her.”
“I remember her well,” said Anne. “Come hither, Catherine, that I may see you more closely.”
Catherine came, and received a light kiss on her cheek. Catherine still thought her cousin the most beautiful person she had ever seen, but she was less likely to idealize, because all her devotion was for Manox.
“Curtsey, girl!” thundered the Duchess. “Do you not know that you stand before your Queen?”
Anne laughed. “Oh, come! No ceremony in the family . . . No, Catherine, please . . .”
Anne thought, Poor little thing! She is pretty enough, but how unkempt she looks!
“Perhaps Your Majesty will find a place for her at court . . .”
“Assuredly I will,” said Anne, “but she is young yet.”
“On your knees, girl, and show some gratitude!”
“Grandmother,” laughed the Queen, “I would have you remember this is but our family circle. I am weary of ceremony; let me drop it awhile. What do you like doing, Catherine? Are you fond of music?”
Catherine could glow when she talked of music. They remembered how they had once felt affection, which was spontaneous, for one another, and as they talked it came back to them.
After Catherine had been dismissed, Anne said: “She is a sweet child, but a little gauche. I will send her some clothes; they could be altered to fit her.”
