49

I CANNOT LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE WITH HIM. EVEN ONE THE size of Windsor Castle. I cannot bear to see him or hear his voice.

I cannot stand the treacherous, feeble thing within me that suffers from his presence. I have to make him go away.

So with a half-formed plan in mind, and a heart full of caustic bitterness, I go to the one person I know who has enough power and enough cunning to do it for me. A person who has no qualms about manipulating the lives of others.

“Father.”

Father doesn’t look up from his papers. As usual.

One day, I will escape his disappointment. I will find a way for him to respect me—a girl—even if it kills me.

“Father.”

“I know you’re there, Anne. Allow me to finish.”

One day, I will keep him waiting.

“Father.”

“Anne!” he barks. “You obviously do not realize how much work goes into being a diplomat during times of war. It actually requires effort. Not sitting around singing and playing cards like a maid-in-waiting. No, being an ambassador means I have to concentrate and write letters and make decisions. Something you wouldn’t understand because you simply follow your whims without regard to the consequences.”

He is right. I act and speak before thinking. But I do regard the consequences, because I have to live with them. And I know exactly what it means to be a diplomat in times of war. I am at war within the court itself. A war of attrition.

He throws his quill into the inkpot with a vicious thrust.

“Now. What requires my attention so badly? A new gown? The loss of a slipper? Lute strings?”

I glare at him, but he’s too busy shuffling papers to see me.

“All my family ever does is ask for more money,” he mutters.

“Father”—I manage to keep my voice calm—“I have no need for extra allowance.”

“That’s good because I have no extra to share. My family has depleted my treasury. All of my funds. I send money to your mother for gowns and baubles and gifts though it serves no purpose. I never see her. And you! I maintain two households so you can fritter away your time in the country. Your brother spends a fortune on women and wine and is nothing but a joke in the king’s service. Worthless. The way you all live is prodigal, even for court. Why, when I first married your mother, we lived on fifty pounds a year. A year. And she brought another mouth to feed every six months.”

His voice slows down over the course of this speech, and I see that he isn’t even thinking about what he’s saying, much less conscious of my presence in front of him.

“That’s physically impossible, Father.”

The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t care. I know for a fact there were two years between each of us, including the two baby boys memorialized in the churches at Hever and Penshurst.

“Nine, then.” He taps his index finger to a passage on the letter he’s reading, his focus fully occupied by it. He doesn’t listen even when I point out he’s a fool.

I see how I can turn his complaining into a weapon against him. I see the perfect opportunity to present my scheme to him, before the idea fully takes shape.

“Father, I’m concerned about your workload. I wondered if someone else might help carry that burden.”

“Are you thinking of becoming a diplomat?” he asks with a curl to his lip. He studies me slowly, taking in my long sleeves and my French hood, then cocks his head to the side with a knowing look. “You have to conform to be a diplomat. Blend in.”

“Thank you, Father, for thinking I’m capable enough that only my attire bars me from a post,” I say, trying to keep the ice from my voice. “It is not myself I wish to put forward, but a friend.” Not a friend. I cross my fingers against the lie.

“Oh?”

“Do you not think our old neighbor, Thomas Wyatt, would make a good diplomat? He definitely knows how to blend in. He speaks excellent French. Everyone likes him.” Except me.

Father looks at me. I cross the fingers of my other hand.

“You’re right, of course,” he says with a nod. “You always were a perceptive girl.”

A compliment. Fancy that.

“Thank you, Father.”

I offer a little curtsy.

“I shall mention it to the king.”

“You know Sir Henry Wyatt, as well. He can be very persuasive.” In a harsh, critical, demanding sort of way.

“I shall mention it to Sir Henry, as well,” Father says decisively, as if it is his idea. Simple.

“Thomas mentioned he always wanted to go abroad.”

I squeeze my fingers so tightly I stop the blood. Thomas loves England.

“Did he now?”

“And he admires you so.” I can’t feel my fingertips.

Father preens.

It is so simple. Which must be why I feel I am diving off a cliff. Simple—and dangerous.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Father says.

Father can be very persuasive as well. Thomas Wyatt is as good as gone.

And Thomas certainly won’t make Father’s life easier.

Two birds. One small stone. But the one time my father hears my words is the one time I wish I could take them back.

I turn to leave, certain that my father has forgotten about me entirely. But his voice cuts the air just as I start through the doorway.

“I know what you’re doing.”

I almost trip because I stop midstride.

“Seeking preferment for your lovers is commonplace at court, Anne,” he says. I don’t turn, but I can hear that he speaks to his papers. He doesn’t raise his head. “You just don’t want it to ruin you. It’s the best thing for you that Thomas Wyatt leave court. That he no longer drag your name through his own muck. That’s why I will do this, Anne. Not to lighten my workload.”

I don’t even attempt to tell him that Thomas is not my lover and never will be. My father believes what he will.

“Just don’t mourn his absence.” One last piece of fatherly advice.

“I won’t.” This lie is the hardest to tell.

Because I already am.