from a pocket in her blue slashed bell sleeve. A ruby suspended from a silver chain glittered in the sunlight through the clouds as she held it out to Catherine.
“My husband, the duke, gave this to your mother on her wedding day. He thought it might bring her luck. It quite obviously brought her no benefit. So, since I have no use for it . . .”
Her words fell away as she awkwardly offered the chain to Catherine. She reached out her hand and took the precious piece of the past her grandmother offered. She had so few things by which to remember her mother. There was no painted likeness, no letter. Only one linen-and-lace chemise had been left to her, one Catherine greedily guarded. Now there was this personal offering from a woman with whom she had felt no personal connection at all before now. As they stood near the entrance to the manor, a breeze whistled softly through the bough of evergreen trees above them.
“Did she wear it?” Catherine’s voice was shallow, and she could barely force herself to speak.
“Out of duty to him, whenever she visited my husband, yes, Jocasta wore it prominently.”
So at least it had touched her skin. It had been a part of her, Catherine thought. Now it offered a connection to the only time in her life when she had been the recipient of real affection.
Catherine placed the necklace at her own throat and clasped
it behind her neck without breaking her grandmother’s gaze. She vowed she would always wear it to remind herself of what she had lost upon her mother’s death, when she was forced to this sheltered, verdant countryside. There had been no love or affection for her here, but she would try to find that again at court . . . if some courtier, suitable to her uncle’s purposes, might actually come to love her. She had been training herself for a long time to find just that.
Dorothy Barwick had been personally chosen by the dowager duchess as companion and chaperone on the journey to court. But Catherine entirely disregarded the stout older woman and rode silently a pace ahead of her and the rest of their retinue of escorts and luggage, still feeling the sting of betrayal at how judgmental the servant had been. How like Mary Lassells Dorothy had become, she thought. At court, things would likely be no safer for Catherine, so she was determined to be even more careful about whom she trusted now.
As they rode across broad lands, meadows and marshy fields, then through rich woodlands, Catherine fingered the silver chain and the small ruby suspended from it. Her anger at Dorothy and memories of her grandmother helped her keep from longing for the comfort of the only world she knew. She must accept once and for all that she was only a poor relation in a slightly shabby hand-me-down riding costume, with nothing but a pretty face and an infamous pedigree to smooth a path. She would have to call upon her own wits and resources to make her way at court.
By the time they reached a monotonous forest filled with birds trilling and harnesses jangling, Catherine’s mind flashed with fleeting images of the king she remembered, and the two of his four queens she had known, her cousin Anne and Jane Seymour. It made perfect sense to Catherine that her cousin Anne had fought for King
Henry, even at the moment of her death. For a king as tall, athletic and handsome as Henry had been in his youth, attracting the attention of any and all females had obviously been a matter of course.
From a distance, to Catherine, King Henry had seemed frightening, enigmatic and incredibly grand. What would he be like now?
Catherine glanced up at the lacy bough of trees above her as she rode and felt herself smile. Despite her modest beginnings, now that she was away from Horsham, the possibilities of her future truly seemed boundless. For the first time in her life she was free . . . free of the constraints of a strict grandmother and the general bonds of youth. She had resented life at Horsham, but she saw
“My husband, the duke, gave this to your mother on her wedding day. He thought it might bring her luck. It quite obviously brought her no benefit. So, since I have no use for it . . .”
Her words fell away as she awkwardly offered the chain to Catherine. She reached out her hand and took the precious piece of the past her grandmother offered. She had so few things by which to remember her mother. There was no painted likeness, no letter. Only one linen-and-lace chemise had been left to her, one Catherine greedily guarded. Now there was this personal offering from a woman with whom she had felt no personal connection at all before now. As they stood near the entrance to the manor, a breeze whistled softly through the bough of evergreen trees above them.
“Did she wear it?” Catherine’s voice was shallow, and she could barely force herself to speak.
“Out of duty to him, whenever she visited my husband, yes, Jocasta wore it prominently.”
So at least it had touched her skin. It had been a part of her, Catherine thought. Now it offered a connection to the only time in her life when she had been the recipient of real affection.
Catherine placed the necklace at her own throat and clasped
it behind her neck without breaking her grandmother’s gaze. She vowed she would always wear it to remind herself of what she had lost upon her mother’s death, when she was forced to this sheltered, verdant countryside. There had been no love or affection for her here, but she would try to find that again at court . . . if some courtier, suitable to her uncle’s purposes, might actually come to love her. She had been training herself for a long time to find just that.
Dorothy Barwick had been personally chosen by the dowager duchess as companion and chaperone on the journey to court. But Catherine entirely disregarded the stout older woman and rode silently a pace ahead of her and the rest of their retinue of escorts and luggage, still feeling the sting of betrayal at how judgmental the servant had been. How like Mary Lassells Dorothy had become, she thought. At court, things would likely be no safer for Catherine, so she was determined to be even more careful about whom she trusted now.
As they rode across broad lands, meadows and marshy fields, then through rich woodlands, Catherine fingered the silver chain and the small ruby suspended from it. Her anger at Dorothy and memories of her grandmother helped her keep from longing for the comfort of the only world she knew. She must accept once and for all that she was only a poor relation in a slightly shabby hand-me-down riding costume, with nothing but a pretty face and an infamous pedigree to smooth a path. She would have to call upon her own wits and resources to make her way at court.
By the time they reached a monotonous forest filled with birds trilling and harnesses jangling, Catherine’s mind flashed with fleeting images of the king she remembered, and the two of his four queens she had known, her cousin Anne and Jane Seymour. It made perfect sense to Catherine that her cousin Anne had fought for King
Henry, even at the moment of her death. For a king as tall, athletic and handsome as Henry had been in his youth, attracting the attention of any and all females had obviously been a matter of course.
From a distance, to Catherine, King Henry had seemed frightening, enigmatic and incredibly grand. What would he be like now?
Catherine glanced up at the lacy bough of trees above her as she rode and felt herself smile. Despite her modest beginnings, now that she was away from Horsham, the possibilities of her future truly seemed boundless. For the first time in her life she was free . . . free of the constraints of a strict grandmother and the general bonds of youth. She had resented life at Horsham, but she saw
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