Boleyn curse, p.21
Boleyn Curse, page 21
The dining room was set with a crisp white tablecloth, silver cutlery, and the good china. Candlelight filled the room and two glasses of red wine waited for us on the sideboard. The stereo sang out a jazzy Louis Armstrong tune.
John eyed the magnificent feast. There was chicken potpie, a heaping bowl of fresh bread, zesty orange turnips, crispy green beans, a voluptuous garden salad and an enormous chocolate cake. As usual, Grapes had outdone herself.
“Nice spread,” said John as we took our seats across from each other. Candlelight danced across his face as Louis Armstrong’s soulful voice crooned in the background.
“Sorry for all this. Grapes must really like you,” I said tightly.
John didn’t notice the apology. Instead, he dug into the dinner with the enthusiasm of a starving man. He loaded up two huge scoops of casserole and then went back in for more crust. Heaping a mound of turnips and green beans onto the side, he topped it off with a gargantuan pile of salad. His plate looked like a volcano ready to erupt. Remembering his manners, he placed the white linen napkin in his lap and started right in.
As he took his first bite, he scrunched up his face in pleasure. “Oh…my…God. This is sooooo good.”
Once the words were out he dove into his meal with abandon. It was as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks. It was true that Grapes’ food was exceptional, but this guy couldn’t seem to get enough. He ate with the rapture of child after a long day in the playground. As I watched him chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing, I began to wonder about this beautiful man and the boy he once was. I realized I knew nothing about him, other than his academic pursuits.
John finished his first plate and headed in for a second helping. No wonder Grapes loved him. This was the man she could feed...and feed...and feed.
“So John.” I started into my own meal in case he actually ate everything on the table. “Tell me about yourself.”
He looked up, his eating frenzy interrupted.
“Hmmm…okay…” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pondered the question. “I guess it all starts with my family. My dad’s a physician. My mom’s a lawyer. They weren’t around much when I was a kid. They were both dedicated to their careers. Actually, I think that was what ended their marriage. They split when I was fifteen.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“No. Don’t be. They’re both happier now. But I didn’t have much of a childhood. It was a rather formal upbringing, you know? No chicken zombie costumes or home-brew street parties. Nothing like your amazing childhood.”
I smiled. I guess I did have a colorful family. It touched my heart that he remembered my stories.
He watched me from across the table, eyes twinkling in the candlelight. His voice was regretful. “When I’m a father, I’m going to do things differently. You know? I want to do it all. Birthday parties with ponies and clowns, baseball games with hotdogs and beer. Well beer for me…a slushy for her…”
“Her?” I asked.
John smirked, his secret exposed. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted a daughter. But I would be happy with either a girl or a boy. Kids are great.”
“Kids are great.” I lowered my eyes, no longer sure where to go with the conversation. I wasn’t good with this getting-to-know-you stuff. Here was John pouring his heart out about the daughter he hoped to have one day, and I had seized up like a car engine out of motor oil. My faced flushed red.
We finished our dinner in silence. When John had cleaned every last morsel off his plate, he wiped his mouth and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. He eyed me for a while.
“You know what would be nice?” he said.
I put my fork down and looked up at him. “What?”
John made his way around the table and extended his hand. “A dance.” He smiled. “Ellie Bowlan, will you dance with me?”
I blinked at him vacantly.
“Come on, dance with me.” He gave me a wink with those amber eyes as a new jazzy tune came on. “This is one of my favorite Billie Holiday songs.”
John led me onto the makeshift dance floor space between the living and dining room as Billie sang in her smoky voice. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me in close. I could feel the firmness of his pectoral muscles and the strength of his arms around me. It made me a little weak in the knees.
As we danced slow and mellow, he sang the words under his breath.
We spun around and around, his rough cheek grazing mine. Our bodies leaned in tighter as a surge of electricity passed between us. The smell of his aftershave made my heart flutter. He pulled my chin upward with his index finger and gazed down with a long slow smile.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered.
John’s lips were so close to mine, I could feel his sweet breath mingling with my own. My body responded and I leaned in closer, willing him to kiss me. I shuddered as he ran his fingers through my hair. He lowered his delicious lips, ready to deliver a slow yearning kiss. I raised my mouth to his and closed my eyes, waiting for the gentle flush of contact.
But it didn’t come.
A slam of the front door startled us from our embrace. Bernice whooped with fright as Gerty chastised her for her reaction. The commotion was anything but subtle and the bickering continued as they made their way down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Come on, Lizzie. Where have you hidden them?” Bernice trilled.
Grapes shushed her friends but it was too late. Bernice and Gerty barged into the dining room, eager-faced and breathless. Grapes trailed behind, her expression apologetic.
“John, can I introduce you to Gerty and Bernice?” Grapes said awkwardly.
Gerty and Bernice were wearing matching cornflower blue velour jumpsuits. They looked like three crazy old sisters when they dressed this way.
“Oh you are handsome, aren’t you?” Gerty gushed.
“John, it’s a real pleasure, darlin’.” Bernice chimed in blindly.
“Hi there,” said John.
John released me from our embrace but continued to hold my hand as the Titanium Trio peppered him with questions. He responded with his usual charm and these old women swooned. They launched into a series of long-winded stories about their day of cupcake sales and showed off their matching hand-stitched costumes. John listened politely with an amused expression.
After a while, Grapes shooed her friends towards the door. “Gerty and Bernice just came to drop off the Tupperware containers, right girls?” She worked them from behind.
“Actually,” John interjected. “I have to be going too.” He locked eyes with mine—a silent exchange between us. “Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Bowlan. I had a great time.”
“But you haven’t even had your chocolate cake,” Grapes protested. Obviously, the idea of her delicious food going to waste was about to twist her knickers in a knot.
She hurried into the kitchen and re-emerged with a Tupperware container full of leftovers. Two extra large slices of cake wrapped in aluminum foil crowned the top of the pile. She pushed the package into his hands.
“There, now dear. I’ve packed up enough for you and Dez. He loves my chicken pot pie, but that chocolate cake, well, it’s magical.”
1514
CHATEAU DE BLOIS, LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Nothing was the same after Anne’s afternoon with Henry. Everything felt wrong. Their time together had been so short, just enough to allow Anne to remember everything she loved about him. His masculine scent. His firm torso. The scratch of his beard when he kissed her. They had spent only a couple of hours together, laughing and whispering like sweethearts. It had been as wonderful as the night when they first kissed. Where Anne’s heart ended, Henry’s began. It was love. Anne was sure of it.
Since their parting, Anne had worn Henry’s gift every day. The gold embossed B hung in the delicate hollow of her throat. She often played with the pearls that hung from the charm and longed for the day they might have a child of their own.
Henry had sailed back to England that night with George. Anne had begged him to stay but they both knew he could not. He was bound by duty to his country, and England was where he belonged.
Anne sulked. Her sister’s arrival had changed things for the worse here in France too. Though it was not her fault, Mary had brought an unwelcome formality back into their happy lives. Mary was too prim and proper to connect with Claude and Marguerite. Nor did she have the mental fortitude to spar with Leonardo.
As a result, Anne felt torn between two worlds. With Claude, Marguerite, and Leonardo, Anne was free to query and question and marvel at the vast world around her. But with Mary, Anne had fallen back into the practices of her more formal upbringing. Dresses and hairstyles, dance steps and music. She had even returned to needlepoint in the afternoons to help her sister feel more at ease.
To make matters worse, old King Louis had seen fit to end their summer holiday by calling them all back to the Chateau du Blois. And just like that Anne’s summer fun had vanished in a puff of smoke.
For their first formal supper with the French royals, Mary had insisted on meticulous preparation. Servants swirled around her, applying the final additions to her costume and hair. Anne, in contrast, sat slumped in a chair, unwilling to pretty herself no matter how much Rose cajoled. She had not even flinched when her nursemaid threatened to pinch her cheeks to give her a bit of color.
“Do you prefer the pearl drop earrings or the opals?” Mary crooned. She dusted her bust with powder, the rose pink of her fitted bodice creating an impressive young cleavage.
Anne looked out the window. Even the poor weather had returned. “The opals are fine.”
Mary gazed into a small looking glass she had brought along from England. “Should I wear my hair up or leave it down, do you think?”
Anne looked at her sister as her handmaid brushed out her long blonde hair. “Down, dear sister. Your hair shines like the sun when you wear it down.”
Anne and Mary curtsied as they entered the grand dining room, an enormous fire crackling in the hearth. Her sister’s face lit with pleasure at the elegance of the evening, the crisp white tablecloths, the busy servants, and minstrels making ready for the feast and entertainment. But Anne was in no mood. Despite the steady stream of arriving dinner guests, King Louis and his dwarf were already eating. She couldn’t believe his ill manners.
Louis sat hunched over his plate, shoveling blancmange into his mouth with his new elegant Italian fork. His small man, Frederique, slurped wine from a chalice, unconcerned with the rice that was collecting in his beard.
Stiff-necked courtiers mingled with guarded formality. Anne noticed Leonardo da Vinci looking elegant in his doublet and cap, a strange contrast to his long flowing nightgowns from their summer away. He pulled at the ruffled fabric of his constricting neckline and gave Anne a sympathetic nod as he passed by.
Francis, on the other hand, stood near the grand fireplace looking at ease. Although Anne had met him before, she looked upon Claude’s husband as if seeing him for the first time. She had thought little of him on their first encounter but Claude had spoken of him with such warmth this summer, it made her curious.
Francis’ eyes were too small and his nose rather large but he was handsome enough in his doublet and hose. Anne could see why Claude admired him. He was refined and well dressed and he had mastered the smooth manners of court. He flitted from guest to guest with the grace of a butterfly, never spending too much time with any one patron. He flattered and beguiled, he chuckled and jested, his conversation as light as a summer breeze.
Claude arrived dressed in a bejeweled dress that made her belly look even larger than it was. She made her way through the crowd with a timid step. Anne waved at her best friend, eager for her to join, but Claude wasn’t looking her way. A shy smile played across Claude’s face as she gazed at Francis. The two had obviously not yet seen one another since their return from Amboise.
“Claude, my darling. How well you look,” said Francis, eyeing her full form.
Claude’s bust spilled from her dress. She was thick with pregnancy and her neck seemed to swallow up her face. Her fingers were as fat as sausages.
“Our child grows large,” Claude apologized.
Francis took her hand and kissed it. “Indeed. Our son will soon be come to this world.”
King Louis barked from across the room. “Your hunch back has grown too!”
The king and his dwarf roared with laughter.
Anne winced at the insult. It hung in the air like an awful smell. At the provocation, Francis’ pretty manners faltered. He let go Claude’s hand and created a distance between himself and his wife. Claude, now flushing red, retreated to the back of the crowd while Francis made a beeline to his sister.
Anne was not impressed with the exchange. Francis seemed more concerned with blending into the conversation than bothering with his wife’s humiliation. But perhaps that was the way of French court. Everything was as polished as silver on the surface but there was ugliness beneath.
In spite of the unease working its way through the crowd, Marguerite was keeping the conversation convivial and easy. She was discussing the finer points of castle life with a couple of well-dressed ladies and the man with the twitching peacock feather. The fashion choices for the season. The musical entertainment. The foul weather that was ruining the annual tennis match.
“Francis, I would like to introduce you to Anne Boleyn’s sister,” Marguerite said as her brother joined the group. “Mary is come from England to serve as a lady-in-wait to the English princess.”
Francis’ cheeks flushed as his eyes slid over Mary Boleyn. Unlike Claude, Mary was slim and youthful. Her eyes were the color of the summer sky. Her gown was the height of French fashion and it accentuated her already generous bosom.
Anne scowled.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Francis as he kissed Mary’s fingers.
Mary lowered her eyelids, a shy smile pulling across her lips.
“May I bid you welcome by asking for a dance?” he asked with a bow.
The minstrels picked up their instruments and began to play an exquisite French chanson for the group. Mary blushed as Francis pulled her in close, the crowd crooning with the elegance of their movements. Mary smiled up at Francis with the heady innocent gaze of youth as they performed the elaborate steps together. It was as though they had danced together a hundred times before.
Anne felt a whirl of nausea in her stomach as she watched them. She wondered if Francis was as praiseworthy as Claude suggested.
“Enough revelry!” the king barked with impatience. “We have things to discuss.”
The festivities ended abruptly as the guests dispersed from the dance floor and made their way to the dining table. Servants collided with courtiers as they attempted to assemble under the king’s command. Large casseroles of blancmange, now gone cold, were ready for serving. Anne was ushered to a spot beside Leonardo and they both hastened to their seats.
“Now then,” the King began unceremoniously. “I wish to discuss the royal wedding.” He turned his eyes on Leonardo. “Da Vinci, our Italian scholar, what say you of our new Italian forks? Are they not impressive?”
Leonardo glanced at the silver object clutched in the King’s fingers. “Your fork is most impressive, sire.”
The king slapped his hand on the table, the vibrations rattling the plates all the way down to Anne’s place setting. “Spoken like a true Italian gentleman. That is why I have decided you shall be the banquet organizer for my wedding. You shall bring an air of Italian elegance to our festivities. But I warn you, my expectations are high.”
Leonardo picked up his own fork and rotated it between his long fingers, his voice now dripping with sarcasm. “And shall you have forks at this great event?”
The king smiled boastfully. “Of course. It is to be the greatest event of the decade.” He waved a finger in the air. “And I shall have fireworks.”
Leo nodded carefully. Anne noticed a look of measured patience on her friend’s face.
“And the fashion must be high—robes the color of amethyst, trimmed in fur,” the king pressed on, lost in his own vision.
“Ermine fur?” Leonardo’s face was difficult to read now.
“Fine, yes. Ermine fur.” Louis waved off the suggestion.
Leonardo bobbed his head. “Is there anything else you require, sire?”
“Yes, of course. I did not bring you here to laze about, da Vinci. You shall paint a work of art in homage to me—the Great King of France. And you shall present it at my wedding.”
Anne wondered if Louis would be capable of appreciating fine art the likes of which Leonardo could produce. He probably wouldn’t know the difference between a work of art and the simple sketch of a five-year-old child.
Marguerite waded into the discussion now. Anne had seen her manage the king’s mercurial spirit before and wondered if she would have the same luck this evening. “What of the ladies of the court? Are we to be bride’s maids to the English princess for this wedding?” she asked lightly.
Louis shifted his gaze down the table, his eyes hardening. “Yes, Marguerite, we shall have all but the dog.”
Marguerite laughed at what she mistook for a joke. “The dog, sire?”
But the pause in the conversation was a pregnant one, as pregnant as the woman to whom he had just referred. Anne knew exactly what he meant. The king pointed down the table. The guests watched as he swung his finger in Claude’s direction.
“That. I shall not have that…thing…at my wedding.”
An awkward hush filled the room. No one knew what to say.
Anne could understand none of it. The king’s mood had become suddenly boorish, a dangerous tone lurking beneath. But nothing she had learned about this family in her time in France could explain this man’s inconsolable hatred for his daughter. All her life, Claude had served her father well. She had done everything he had ever asked of her.
