Chapter Seven #2
“I was given a place at the palace as the undersecretary to the Earl of Sussex.” He’s standing just in front of me, and when I go to retreat, my back meets the wall.
Francis takes a slow breath. He begins to reach for me again but then thinks better of it, resting his arms at his sides.
It seems physically difficult for him not to touch me.
“I’ll never leave you again,” he swears.
“Right.” This next bit is going to be difficult for him.
I keep my voice gentle and steady, leaving room for his disappointment but not for negotiation.
“So, Francis, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’ve been doing a lot of reevaluating lately, and I think it would be for the best if we forget everything we ever were to each other. ”
He begins to laugh but stops halfway. His eyes are unblinking. “You’re serious? You want me to forget us?”
“I just feel that we’ve grown as people during our time apart, and it would be better for all involved parties for us to go our separate ways. Think of it as a clean break.”
Francis shakes his head, running a bloodied hand through his unruly hair. “No! I know they’re forcing you to marry the king. I know you don’t want this union and that if it were in your power, you would leave with me now.”
It’s safe to say that Francis is well within the denial stage of his grief process. I’m about to explain emotional fixation to him when a firm knock sounds at the door.
“Catherine? Are you in there?” It’s Lady Rochford’s voice.
My stomach drops. I can’t be found in here with an ex-boyfriend. Not only will I lose my head, but I’ll lose it ahead of schedule. I walk into Francis, pushing him back in the direction of the curtains.
“You need to go. You need to get back in your hiding spot or leave without anyone seeing you.”
He cups a hand behind my neck, and I’m so rattled by the door latch rattling that I don’t immediately karate chop his arm off.
“I won’t forsake you again, Catherine. I swear it.” His voice is all passion and unfulfilled longing, and I really don’t have time for it.
“Sounds good. Don’t forsake me. Just please hide!”
He touches his forehead to mine, which I make a face at, before he scurries behind the curtain. I move to the door, ready to unlock it, when Francis pops his head back out.
“I’ll find a way for us to meet in the coming days.” He takes a labored breath before adding, “I have missed you, wife.”
Come the fuck again?!
I’m about to tear the curtain off the wall and demand that Francis explain himself when Lady Rochford pounds on the door. I unlock and open it, taking in her suspicious face and praying that she doesn’t notice how flushed mine is.
“Are you all right?” she asks, looking at me then past me to glance around the room.
“Me? I’m great.” Sure, I might have just found out that I’m already married to Timothée Chalamet’s lovesick older brother, who would probably love nothing more than to die by my side. But yeah, other than that, I’m great.
I step out of the room and close the door. My legs carry me forward in a clumsy rhythm as I move past Lady Rochford, hoping against hope that I’m not about to become England’s first-ever polygamist queen.
It’s official. Catherine is married, and by extension I’m married-ish.
Henry and I are at our wedding feast. Wine is flowing, there’s music (thanks to Bartholomew, William, and crew), and the room is full of dancing and merrymaking.
As the new Tudor it-girl, eyes follow me everywhere.
I’m being looked over and sized up, and after an hour of being queen I have learned that being overlooked is highly underestimated.
We’re sitting on a little dais at the moment, hovering over the higher-ranking members of court as they partake in the festivities. Henry’s arm sleeves are especially puffy for the occasion, and his outfit matches mine in its shade of pure gold.
He places his wine cup down on the table as he turns to face me with a soft, pleased smile. “Are you happy?”
With someone like Henry, I need to use adoration with razor-sharp precision.
A man with unchecked power is used to flattery, so I need to feed his ego uniquely if I want him to trust me before anyone else.
“Very happy,” I answer, placing my hand on the material covering his wrist. “The whole world knows you as a king, but I know you for who you truly are. I get to know your heart. It’s the greatest gift you could ever give me. ”
My words do the trick as pride and contentment sift through Henry’s eyes. He kisses my hand, as he tends to do, and sighs as he looks out at the crowd in front of us.
“A bride should dance on her wedding day. Let me find you a partner.”
“You’re not dancing?” I ask.
He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to as he turns his gaze to the side. “Thomas! Someone fetch Culpepper to me. I would see him dance with the queen.”
Of course that’s who he has to go and pick as my partner. My displeasure at his choice is evident on my face, but he sees it as my not wanting to dance with anyone but him, not my specifically not wanting to dance with Thomas.
“Oh, go on, my sweet,” Henry says obligingly. “Alas, my leg pains me this evening, and I’d rather save my strength for when we are alone.” He gives me a wink, and it triggers an instantaneous bile response in my throat.
My self-preservation instincts kick into high gear as I search the crowd for Bessie.
She promised that she’d be finished with the sleeping draft today, and Cecily is milling around under the guise of serving wine as she waits to take part in the drop-off.
A group of ladies-in-waiting enter the room.
I’m hopeful Bessie is among them when my view is abruptly blocked by none other than Catherine’s deadly sidepiece, Thomas Culpepper.
He bows before us with formality and flare. Henry eats it up. “Your Majesty,” Thomas drawls, rising to stand tall in all his splendor. “It would be an honor to dance with the queen.”
Henry applauds in approval and sends me off with a nudge.
I keep my expression impassive as I step off the dais, taking Thomas’s softer-than-average hand.
We make our way to the middle of the dance floor, and I steal a glance at William and Bartholomew.
They make subtle teasing expressions, eliciting a smile from my sour face.
Thomas follows my gaze in curiosity, but my boys turn serious before he can catch them.
They ready their instruments, and a spritely melody fills the room as dozens of dancers take their place around us.
I momentarily panic as I hear the notes, remembering that the men and women of court have been taught specific music and steps since childhood, thanks to the watchful eyes of their dance tutors. I, in contrast, was never able to fully master the Macarena.
But as Thomas steps forward and everyone moves in a synchronized turn, I’m shocked to find that I do, too.
It’s the same muscle-memory sensation I experienced during my attempted horseback escape on day one, and, oddly enough, I feel a very similar thrill as I move in tandem with the rest of the dancers.
“Well, you’ve truly done it, haven’t you? Just as you said you would.” Thomas’s voice is buttered with mischief as he takes my hand and ushers me into another spin. “Catherine Howard, the queen of England.”
I’m not trying to dislike him, but it’s hard not to. Thomas inherently carries himself with the bravado and entitlement of an Ivy League graduate with no student debt. If I met him in the future, I have no doubt that his chosen mode of footwear would be white tube socks and Adidas Slides.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
We step close, pressing the flats of our hands together. “Why are you so cold to me? But a week ago you held me in the breast of your confidence. Now you hardly speak a word in my direction.”
God forbid he miss an opportunity to say the word “breast.” We move apart then come back together, our hands meeting once more.
“It’s for your own good. It’s not you, it’s me.” I speak the words more cynically than I mean to, but Thomas seems to like it.
“What would you have me do to be back in your good graces? I miss the tender touch of your words.”
I roll my eyes as we all do a little turn. With arms outstretched, the women move in a circular motion around their partners, and I walk around Thomas with banal curiosity.
“Are you always like this?” I ask.
“Like what, my queen?”
Back in two lines, we walk forward with our toes pointed, moving one step at a time. My fingers rest on the back of Thomas’s offered hand. “You speak purely in innuendo. Everything you say and do feels performative.”
His returning half smile is almost sincere.
“Says the greatest playactor of us all.” Now it’s the women’s turn to stay still as the men walk around them in a little circle.
“I don’t judge you, of course. On the contrary, I respect you all the more.
” Thomas is speaking over my shoulder, and I turn my neck to meet his gaze as he steps around to the other side.
“We all do what we must to get by in this world. Don’t we, Catherine?”
Something inside me sinks at his words. It’s the way he says Catherine—like he knows something he shouldn’t.
It leaves me off-balance, and for the first time in the dance, I miss a step as he spins away with a wry smile.
I think about going after him, but just then my hand is caught up in a warm, large grasp as we switch partners.
Someone else is standing across from me now, anchoring my feet to the floor with his steady gaze, which I realize I’m starting to crave.
Exhilaration and nerves rake through my stomach as I stare up into a familiar pair of green eyes. He gives me a barely noticeable smile that’s just for me, and I’m forced to face a very, very dangerous truth.
I have never wanted anyone as much as I want Simon Gainsford.