“Might it not depend on the mistress, Mademoiselle Bouillain?”

She shrugged her shoulders in the way which was so much more charming than the gesture of the French ladies, because it was only half French.

“I do not care to take the risk,” she said.

Then he laughed and sang to her, and asked that she should sing to him. This she did gladly, for her voice was good and she was susceptible to admiration and eager to draw it to herself at every opportunity. Contact with the Duchesse d’Alencon had made her value herself highly, and though she was as fond of amorous adventures as any, she knew exactly at what moment to retire. She was enjoying every moment of her life at the court of France. There was so much to amuse her that life could never be dull. Lighthearted flirtations, listening to the scandal of the court, reading with Marguerite, and getting a glimmer of the new religion that had begun to spring up in Europe, since a German monk named Martin Luther had nailed a set of theses on a church door at Wittenberg. Yes, life was colorful and amusing, stimulating mind and body. Though the news that came from England was not so good; disaster had set in after the return from the palace of Guisnes. Poverty had swept over the country; the harvest was bad, and people were dying of the plague in the streets of London. The King was less popular than he had been before his love of vulgar show and pageantry had led him to that folly which men in England now called “The Field of the Cloth of Gold.”

There was not very exhilarating news from her family. Uncle Edmund Howard had yet another child, and that a daughter. Catherine, they called her. Anne’s ready sympathy went out to poor little Catherine Howard, born into the poverty of that rambling old house at Lambeth. Then Mary had married—hardly brilliantly—a certain William Carey. Anne would have liked to hear of a better match for her sister; but both she and George, right from Hever days, had known Mary was a fool.

And now war clouds were looming up afresh, and this time there was fear of a conflict between France and England. At the same time there was talk of a marriage for Anne which was being arranged in England to settle some dispute one branch of her family was having with another.

So Anne left France most reluctantly, and sailed for England. At home they said she was most Frenchified; she was imperious, witty, lovely to look at, and her clothes caused comment from all who beheld them.

She was just sixteen years old.

Anne’s grandfather, the old Duke of Norfolk, was not at home when Anne, in the company of her mother, visited the Norfolk’s house at Lambeth. The Duchess was a somewhat lazy, empty-headed woman who enjoyed listening to the ambitious adventures of the younger members of her family, and she had learned that her granddaughter, Anne, had returned from France a charming creature. Nothing therefore would satisfy the Duchess but that this visit should be paid, and during it she found an especial delight in sitting in the grounds of her lovely home on the river’s edge, dozing and indulging in light conversation with the girl whom she herself would now be ready to admit was the most interesting member of the family. And, thought the vain old lady, the chit has a look of me about her; moreover, I declare at her age I looked very like her. What honors, she wondered, were in store for Anne Boleyn, for the marriage with the Butlers was not being brought at any great speed to a satisfactory conclusion; and how sad if this bright child must bury herself in the wilds of that dreary, troublesome, uncivilized Ireland! But—and the Duchess sighed deeply—what were women but petty counters to be bartered by men in the settlement of their problems? Thomas Boleyn was too ambitious. Marry! An the girl were mine, to court she should go, and a plague on the Butlers.

She watched Anne feeding the peacocks; a figure of grace in scarlet and grey, she was not one whit less gorgeous than those arrogant, elegant birds. She’s Howard, mused the Duchess with pride. All Howard! Not a trace of Boleyn there.

“Come and sit beside me, my dear,” she said. “I would talk to you.”

Anne came and sat on the wooden seat which overlooked the river; she gazed along its bank at the stately gabled houses whose beautiful gardens sloped down to the water, placing their owners within comfortable distance of the quickest and least dangerous means of transport. Her gaze went quickly towards those domes and spires that seemed to pierce the blue and smokeless sky. She could see the heavy arches of London Bridge and the ramparts of the Tower of London—that great, impressive fortress whose towers, strong and formidable, stood like sentinels guarding the city.

Agnes, Duchess of Norfolk, saw the girl’s eager expression, and guessed her thoughts. She tapped her arm.

“Tell me of the court of France, my child. I’ll warrant you found much to amuse you there.”

As Anne talked, the Duchess lay back, listening, now and then stifling a yawn, for she had eaten a big dinner and, interested as she was, she was overcome by drowsiness.

“Why, bless us!” she said. “When you went away, your father was of little import; now you return to find him a gentleman of much consequence—Treasurer of the Household now, if you please!”

“It does please,” laughed Anne.

“They tell me,” said Agnes, “that the office is worth a thousand pounds a year! And what else? Steward of Tonbridge....” She began enumerating the titles on her fingers. “Master of the Hunt. Constable of the Castle. Chamberlain of Tonbridge. Receiver and Bailiff of Bradsted, and the Keeper of the Manor of Penshurst. And now it is whispered that he is to be appointed Keeper of the Parks at Thundersley, to say nothing of Essex and Westwood. Never was so much honor done a man in so short a time!”

“My father,” said Anne, “is a man of much ability.”

“And good fortune,” said Agnes slyly, eyeing the girl mischievously, thinking—Can it be that she does not know why these honors are heaped on her father, and she fresh from the wicked court of France? “And your father is lucky in his children,” commented Agnes mischievously.

The girl turned puzzled eyes on her grandmother. The old lady chuckled, thinking—She makes a pretty pose of ignorance, I’ll swear!

Anne said, her expression changing: “I would it were as well with every member of our family.” And her eyes went towards a house less than half a mile away along the river’s bank.

“Ah!” sighed the Duchess. “There is a man who served his country well, and yet...” She shrugged her shoulders. “His children are too young to be of any use to him.”

“I hear there is a new baby,” said Anne. “Do they not visit you?”

“My dear, Lord Edmund is afraid to leave his house for fear he should be arrested. He has many debts, poor man, and he’s as proud as Lucifer. Ah, yes...a new baby. Why, little Catherine is but a baby yet.”

“Grandmother, I should like to see the baby.”

The Duchess yawned. It had ever been her habit to push unpleasant thoughts aside, and the branch of her family which they were now discussing distressed her. What she enjoyed hearing was of the success of Sir Thomas and the adventures of his flighty daughter. She could nod over them, simper over them, remember her own youth and relive it as she drowsed in her pleasant seat overlooking the river. Still, she would like the Edmund Howards to see this lovely girl in her pretty clothes. The Duchess had a mischievous turn of mind. The little Howards had a distinguished soldier for a father, and they might starve; the Boleyn children had a father who might be a clever enough diplomatist, but, having descended from merchants, was no proud Howard; still, he had a most attractive daughter. There were never two men less alike than Lord Edmund Howard and Sir Thomas Boleyn. And to His Majesty, thought the Duchess, smiling into a lace handkerchief, a sword grown rusty is of less use than a lovely, willing girl.

“Run to the house and get cloaks,” she said. “We will step along to see them. A walk will do me good and mayhap throw off this flatulence which, I declare, attacks me after every meal these days.”

“You eat too heartily, Grandmother.”

“Off with you, impudent child!”

Anne ran off. It does me good to look at her, thought her grandmother. And what when the King claps eyes on her, eh, Thomas Boleyn? Though it occurs to me that she might not be to his taste. I declare were I a man I’d want to spank the haughtiness out of her before I took her to bed. And the King would not be one to brook such ways. Ah, if you go to court, Anne Boleyn, you will have to lose your French dignity—if you hope to do as well as your saucy sister. Though you’ll not go to court; you’ll go to Ireland. The Ormond title and the Ormond wealth must be kept in the family to satisfy grasping Thomas, and he was ever a man to throw his family to the wolves.

The Duchess rose, and Anne, who had come running up, put a cloak about her shoulders; they walked slowly through the gardens and along the river’s edge.

The Lambeth house of the Edmund Howards was a roomy place, cold and drafty. Lady Edmund was a delicate creature on whom too frequent child-bearing and her husband’s poverty were having a dire effect. She and her husband received their visitors in the great panelled hall, and wine was brought for them to drink. Lord Edmund’s dignity was great, and it touched Anne deeply to see his efforts to hide his poverty.

“My dear Jocosa,” said the Duchess to her daughter-in-law, “I have brought my granddaughter along to see you. She has recently returned from France, as you know. Tell your aunt and uncle all about it, child.”

“Uncle Edmund would doubtless find my adventuring tame telling,” said Anne.

“Ah!” said Lord Edmund. “I remember you well, niece. Dover Castle, eh? And the crossing! Marry, I thought I should never see your face again when your ship was missed by the rest of us. I remember saying to Surrey: ‘Why, our niece is there, and she but a baby!’”

Anne sipped her wine, chatting awhile with Lord Edmund of the court of France, of old Louis, of gay Francois, and of Mary Tudor who had longed to be Queen of France and Duchess of Suffolk, and had achieved both ambitions.

The old Duchess tapped her stick imperiously, not caring to be left to Jocosa and her domesticity. “Anne was interested in the children,” she said. “I trow she will be disappointed if she is not allowed to catch a glimpse of them.”

“You must come to the nursery,” said Jocosa. “Though I doubt that the older ones will be there at this hour. The babies love visitors.”

In the nursery at the top of the house, there was more evidence of the poverty of this branch of the Howard family. Little Catherine was shabbily dressed; Mary, the baby, was wrapped in a piece of darned flannel. There was an old nurse who, Anne guessed, doubtless worked without her wages for very love of the family. Her face shone with pride in the children, with affection for her mistress; but she was inclined to be resentful towards Anne and her grandmother. Had I known, thought Anne, I could have put on a simpler gown.

“Here is the new baby, Madam,” said the nurse, and put the flannel bundle into Anne’s arms. Its little face was puckered and red; a very ugly little baby, but it was amusing and affecting to see the nurse hovering over it as though it were very, very precious.

A little hand was stroking the silk of Anne’s surcoat. Anne looked down and saw a large-eyed, very pretty little girl who could not have been very much more than a year old.

“This is the next youngest,” said Jocosa.

“Little Catherine!” said the Duchess, and stooping picked her up. “Now, Catherine Howard, what have you to say to Anne Boleyn?”

Catherine could say nothing; she could only stare at the lovely lady in the gorgeous, bright clothes. The jewels at her throat and on her fingers dazzled Catherine. She wriggled in the Duchess’s arms in an effort to get closer to Anne, who, always susceptible to admiration, even from babies, handed the flannel bundle back to the nurse.

“Would you like me to hold you, cousin Catherine?” she asked, and Catherine smiled delightedly.

“She does not speak,” said the Duchess.

“I fear she is not as advanced as the others,” said Catherine’s mother.

“Indeed not!” said the Duchess severely. “I remember well this girl here as a baby. I never knew one so bright—except perhaps her brother George. Now, Mary...she was more like Catherine here.”

At the mention of Mary’s name Jocosa stiffened, but the old Duchess went on, her eyes sparkling: “Mary was a taking little creature, though she might be backward with her talk. She knew though how to ask for what she wanted, without words...and I’ll warrant she still does!”