and now my time’s my own.’
I liked that; I was proud of her. Not for being happy with Thomas Seymour, but for kicking up her heels and suiting herself.
‘When Sudeley’s ready’ – Thomas’s latest acquisition in Gloucestershire, being renovated – ‘we’ll probably move there more or less permanently.’
That I liked rather less. ‘Oh, Kate, that’s such a long way.’ A long way west.
‘Good.’ She laughed. ‘The further, the better.’ Then she realised what she’d said. ‘Oh, I don’t mean from you .’ She laid a hand on my arm. ‘I’m including you; you’re coming with me. Well, for as much time as you can.’
Kate had finished telling me her woes and was ready to start getting dressed, so I nipped to check on Charlie. Harry wasn’t with us; he was, by then, boarding at court, being schooled with the king. I wanted to see how my lonesome little Charlie was settling in. At twelve, he was becoming too old to be able to occupy himself with almost nothing – a stick and some long grass, a handful of stones and a stretch of water – but of course he was still years away from being resourceful, adaptable. My suspicion was that I’d find him hanging around, looking sorry for himself and getting in everyone’s way.
I was told, though, that he was already with Thomas: in the gardens somewhere, was all the page knew. Three of Kate’s greyhounds came with me, streaking ahead and then, from time to time, checking back. The gardens at Chelsea are stunning not merely because of the work that has gone into them – so many roses that the household distils its own rosewater – but also the imagination, and I don’t mean summer houses, fountains, pools, because there’s none of that showiness. It’s the detail that’s arresting, I thought, as I cut through an alleyway planted all over with thyme; it released its lovely, warm scent as I crushed it underfoot. It’s a careful, old-fashioned garden. Rather like Kate was, in fact. It occurred to me that although Anne Stanhope is vicious, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to be deeply envious of Kate. True, she’d never had the children she’d have loved to have, and she’d had to marry Henry in his final, dreadful years.On the other hand, she had no children to fear for, she’d never been alone, she’d never had money worries and now never would. She was living a charmed life at Chelsea. It struck me that perhaps it would be easy to be as good as Kate if one were living her life.
Charlie was standing in the strawberry patch with one of his friends – another of the pages – and Thomas, who was declaiming to a huddle of giggling, basket-bristling kitchen maids. Spotting me, Charlie beamed; it wrenched my heart, that good-natured smile. You’d never know, to look at them – even to spend a few days with them – that my boys are so unalike. Harry seems so considered but actually he’s everything, all things, and not least hot-headed: it’s all there in Harry if you only know where to look or wait long enough. I don’t mean that Charlie’s any less - perhaps, indeed, he’s more - but if you could cut him down the middle, he’d be the same all the way through: Charlie and more Charlie, like a perfect stone or a healthy tree trunk. Gem, oak, he stood there in that strawberry patch, my boy, turned into a sore thumb between that peacock of a man and girls with blushes like rose-infused cream. His body, I noticed, seemed to have grown too big for him – when had that happened? During the night? – so that he was all gangle. I reined in an urge to rush to him, grab him to me and hold on fast. Absently, he greeted the dogs.
‘I mean it,’Thomas was laughing at the girls. ‘Go. Go! Go and’ – he gestured, suggesting a search for words – ‘put your feet up.’
I had to shield my eyes to get a look at him.
‘We’ll bring you some,’ he was saying. ‘How’s that: your ownplateful, picked for you by Charlie’s fair hands and my
I liked that; I was proud of her. Not for being happy with Thomas Seymour, but for kicking up her heels and suiting herself.
‘When Sudeley’s ready’ – Thomas’s latest acquisition in Gloucestershire, being renovated – ‘we’ll probably move there more or less permanently.’
That I liked rather less. ‘Oh, Kate, that’s such a long way.’ A long way west.
‘Good.’ She laughed. ‘The further, the better.’ Then she realised what she’d said. ‘Oh, I don’t mean from you .’ She laid a hand on my arm. ‘I’m including you; you’re coming with me. Well, for as much time as you can.’
Kate had finished telling me her woes and was ready to start getting dressed, so I nipped to check on Charlie. Harry wasn’t with us; he was, by then, boarding at court, being schooled with the king. I wanted to see how my lonesome little Charlie was settling in. At twelve, he was becoming too old to be able to occupy himself with almost nothing – a stick and some long grass, a handful of stones and a stretch of water – but of course he was still years away from being resourceful, adaptable. My suspicion was that I’d find him hanging around, looking sorry for himself and getting in everyone’s way.
I was told, though, that he was already with Thomas: in the gardens somewhere, was all the page knew. Three of Kate’s greyhounds came with me, streaking ahead and then, from time to time, checking back. The gardens at Chelsea are stunning not merely because of the work that has gone into them – so many roses that the household distils its own rosewater – but also the imagination, and I don’t mean summer houses, fountains, pools, because there’s none of that showiness. It’s the detail that’s arresting, I thought, as I cut through an alleyway planted all over with thyme; it released its lovely, warm scent as I crushed it underfoot. It’s a careful, old-fashioned garden. Rather like Kate was, in fact. It occurred to me that although Anne Stanhope is vicious, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to be deeply envious of Kate. True, she’d never had the children she’d have loved to have, and she’d had to marry Henry in his final, dreadful years.On the other hand, she had no children to fear for, she’d never been alone, she’d never had money worries and now never would. She was living a charmed life at Chelsea. It struck me that perhaps it would be easy to be as good as Kate if one were living her life.
Charlie was standing in the strawberry patch with one of his friends – another of the pages – and Thomas, who was declaiming to a huddle of giggling, basket-bristling kitchen maids. Spotting me, Charlie beamed; it wrenched my heart, that good-natured smile. You’d never know, to look at them – even to spend a few days with them – that my boys are so unalike. Harry seems so considered but actually he’s everything, all things, and not least hot-headed: it’s all there in Harry if you only know where to look or wait long enough. I don’t mean that Charlie’s any less - perhaps, indeed, he’s more - but if you could cut him down the middle, he’d be the same all the way through: Charlie and more Charlie, like a perfect stone or a healthy tree trunk. Gem, oak, he stood there in that strawberry patch, my boy, turned into a sore thumb between that peacock of a man and girls with blushes like rose-infused cream. His body, I noticed, seemed to have grown too big for him – when had that happened? During the night? – so that he was all gangle. I reined in an urge to rush to him, grab him to me and hold on fast. Absently, he greeted the dogs.
‘I mean it,’Thomas was laughing at the girls. ‘Go. Go! Go and’ – he gestured, suggesting a search for words – ‘put your feet up.’
I had to shield my eyes to get a look at him.
‘We’ll bring you some,’ he was saying. ‘How’s that: your ownplateful, picked for you by Charlie’s fair hands and my
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