The Sixth Wife. Suzannah Dunn

because any money looks a lot to a nine-year-old who’s being taught to budget. ‘And how does that make “Uncle Thomas” look to him?’

      Like a saint, I’d answered.

      He’d inclined his head. ‘Exactly.’

      Ed had also told me that before Thomas had married Kate, he’d turned up to see his nephew and got him on his own for a while. The boy had later reported their conversation, guilelessly, to his Uncle Ed. Thomas had appeared to confide in him: I’m thinking of getting married; would you like me to get married? Your Uncle Thomas: settle down, get myself a nice wife. And then you can come and stay with us as often as you’d like. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? So, who would you like me to marry, who would you choose for me? Eddie had obliged, having several stabs at it: his sister, Mary, for example. Oh dear: not quite the answer Thomas had in mind. In the end, he’d had to prompt: How about your wondeful stepmother? Eddie enthused, Oh, yes! His two favourite grown-ups. All done, as far as Thomas was concerned: the king’s permission. That’s how he boasted of it later to his brother:‘I have the king’s permission.’

      I asked Kate: ‘What does Thomas think of this business with the jewels?’

      ‘Oh, he’s furious.’ Pleased with his indignation on her behalf.

      An indignation that probably had a lot to do with an opportunity to take his brother to task and, into the bargain, gain some jewellery. ‘What does he think you should do?’

      ‘Go to Eddie.’

      I bet he does.

      But she wouldn’t have it. ‘This – these rivalries – it’s all beyond Eddie, and the longer we can protect him from this kind of nonsense, the better. Honestly, you’d think we adults were the children. I hate what this – she – has turned me into. Scrabbling after some jewels. But they’re England’s jewels, for England’s queens. They’re in my safekeeping. I have a duty to keep them safe. If I let Anne Stanhope get hold of them, no one’ll ever see them again. And did I mention that Anne has been saying that when I turn up at court, she’ll have me carrying her train for her? And she’s serious, Cathy, she’s deadly serious.’

      ‘She’s mad,’ I soothed. ‘Very mad.’

      ‘She calls me “Latimer’s widow”, you know.’John Latimer’s widow, as she was before her queenship. Anne Stanhope was trying to make it seem as if Kate’s queenship had never happened. ‘She says Henry wasn’t in his right mind when he married me. She says that I’m her husband’s little brother’s wife, and that’s all I am.’

      All you are. Lovely, willowy, wise Kate. Anne Stanhope was never, ever, a patch on her in any way whatsoever. To lighten the tone, I said, ‘You got the handsome brother, though.’

      And it worked, she laughed. And I laughed, to see her. So, there we both were, grinning away together and, for a moment, nothing else mattered. Two girls amusing themselves: we could still do that, could still be that.

      Then Kate said, ‘You know, I’m glad not to be at court. This Anne Stanhope business: I can go to court and tussle over her train, or I can just not go. That’s how it seems to me now. And it’s not as if I need to go, do I. Thomas and I don’t need to go. We’re happy here; really, really happy. I did my time there, 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 own plateful, picked for you by Charlie’s fair hands and my own; served to you.’

      The notion was too much for them: hands fluttered to mouths, renewed giggling.

      Thomas was going to pick strawberries? Dressed like that? I doubted I’d ever seen a deeper green – how could so much colour have been worked into that silk? – and gold thread ran like fire across it. Those leaves around his ankles could have been made from paper, by comparison. Why was Thomas going to pick strawberries? Pick better, could he, than those bob-kneed, flutter-handed, well-practised girls?

      ‘So, go.’ He swooped, snatched their baskets. ‘Go!’

      And they did, delighted, their honey-coloured dresses twirling around their legs.

      Now, me: my turn. ‘Cathy.’ He was at a disadvantage, though, turned in my direction, his eyes screwed up against the sun.

      ‘Thomas.’

      He put the baskets