Heart of Gold (42 page)

Elizabeth took his hand, and Ambrose brought her fingers to his lips.

“Then...then you think I should go.”

“Not you, lass,” he responded energetically. “We’ll go. That is, if you want to do it.”

Elizabeth could feel the excitement building within her. Her paintings had always presented her with a path to a new and different life. In doing what she loved, in practicing her craft, she had been forced to lose her identity. She had been required to live the life of another. That was why, when Ambrose had told her that she might still paint the Scottish royal family, she had recoiled in fear.

Elizabeth did not want to go back to being someone else. She was a woman. She wanted to remain a woman.

Phillipe de Anjou was dead. Elizabeth Boleyn was alive.

“I do want to go, Ambrose. I do.”

For the tenth time today, Elizabeth folded the letter at its seams and placed it on the table.

Looking into the silvered glass, she gazed at the beautiful woman looking back at her. Never had there been such days of happiness, of joy.

Outside her open window, she could hear the crowds in the street below, the bells ringing in the distance. The autumn afternoon air was crisp and filled with the smell of mutton roasting over an open fire. Her mouth was beginning to water from the aroma.

She sat silently, her eyes taking in the flat stomach that would soon display the treasure it carried inside. She laughed quietly. Their child. Hers and Ambrose’s. A sister or brother to Jaime.

And now, to top all this joy, she was to meet her sister Anne at last. Here, in this working room, within these walls, today.

“Keep working,” she prodded herself aloud. “The time won’t go any faster if you just sit and wait.”

She roused herself from the three-legged stool and went back to the canvas.

A week after Elizabeth and Ambrose had married, the letter had arrived. Anne’s letter. She had read it again and again.

Anne, the young girl she and Mary had left behind so many years back, had written with a heart full of love. Her words were not the words of the person their father had spoken of. No, this was a young woman who understood the pain of separation, the empty ache of loneliness. Anne wrote about how much she longed to see once again her only remaining sister, her beloved Elizabeth. She wrote of the trials of life at the English court. She wrote of Mary. Each time Elizabeth had moved through the text of the letter, she’d felt her heart swell with emotion at the sad lyric of her sister’s words.

The letter had ended with Anne’s heartfelt disappointment at not being able to attend Elizabeth’s wedding, but she had asked for some chance to meet—to reunite—if only for a few moments. Anne had said she was sure she would be granted permission to come to visit the court of King Henry’s sister.

If only, dearest sister, you could travel to Stirling
...

Elizabeth had written back at once. Of course they could meet at Stirling. At the Macphersons’ new town house there. Beneath the walled ramparts of the castle of Queen Margaret, where Elizabeth was to be presented at court.

Elizabeth’s brushes flew over the canvas before her. The black, mischievous eyes, the pale, reaching hand, the last moments that she recalled of the time she spent with the energetic little sister. Elizabeth hoped Anne would like the portrait. It had been difficult to do a painting of such detail just from memory. But Elizabeth knew it was important for her sister to see the vivid image, and perhaps to know of the thoughts that the older sister, even through the passage of time and distance, had retained of the young woman.

Ambrose had brought Elizabeth and little Jaime to Stirling over a month ago. Elizabeth had been presented at court and, to her surprise and dismay, had found herself, after spending some time in the queen’s company, accepting and even respecting Margaret as the strong survivor that the woman was. Sent away at age thirteen to marry King James IV of Scotland, Margaret—by her own admission no more than a pampered child—had been unhappy and lost for a long time. A stranger in a foreign land.

But the turning wheel of Fortune would soon teach the young woman the hard lessons of life. Widowed at the age twenty-four, left in a wild and often barbarous country in the midst of social and political pandemonium after her husband’s death at Flodden field, Margaret Tudor had quickly learned the skills needed for survival.

Elizabeth placed the brush with the others in the cup and wiped her hand with the rag on the side table. All the fears she had harbored before arriving at court had soon washed away after her first meetings with the queen. Ambrose had been right in everything he’d said. Elizabeth could clearly see that Margaret perceived herself as a patroness, a great and generous benefactor of the arts and of artists. But the one thing about the queen that most surprised Elizabeth only occurred to her in her observation of the people who surrounded Margaret. The queen was the benefactor of intelligent women. Women of learning and accomplishment. The ones who took their lives and their destinies into their own hands. Women like Margaret herself. Women like Elizabeth. The survivors, the strong.

Then, yesterday evening, the man sent ahead by Anne had arrived with the news of her arrival by next noon.

Even though she’d done it herself, Elizabeth now wished she had not sent Ambrose and Jaime away this morning. She’d told Ambrose that she wanted to greet her sister alone, to have a chance to renew their bond of sisterly love before presenting Anne to her husband and her daughter. But there was something else, as well. The damp chill of anxiety had begun to creep into Elizabeth’s bones. Even though their father had readily believed Jaime to be his eldest daughter’s child, Elizabeth could not be certain that Anne would believe the same thing.

Even as a child, Anne had been intelligent beyond her years, and now Elizabeth was conscious of a nagging fear that her sister might discover the truth. After all, Jaime was Henry’s child, and with the dreams that Anne had of becoming queen, Elizabeth worried now what discovering Jaime’s true identity might mean to the ambitious young woman.

It had been difficult to persuade Ambrose to go. He’d not wanted to leave her side, especially, as he jokingly put it, in her weakened condition. Finally, after a great deal of cajoling on her part, he’d reluctantly agreed to take Jaime for half a day’s ride and return at supper. But that was it. Elizabeth had known she would not be able to wheedle even a moment more out of him, and she cheerfully settled for their compromise. Indeed, since they’d wed, the Highlander had been true to his word—he had not left her alone for more than a day.

Elizabeth smiled and gave a small sigh, thinking of the love that they shared. Life was bliss in Ambrose Macpherson’s arms.

The painting was finished. Elizabeth stepped back and scanned the portrait with a critical eye. It was good work. And the young girl’s depiction successfully captured the very essence of what she remembered of Anne. But the setting in which she placed the girl was purely the product of her own imagination.

Elizabeth depicted Anne standing before the high platform of an ornate altar. She was dressed in a crimson velvet gown, decorated with ermine, and a rich robe of purple velvet, also trimmed with strips of ermine. A golden coronet with a cap of pearls and stones covered her jet-black hair. Anne’s face contained all the vibrancy of a young girl, but her vestments conjured the image of a queen. Indeed, on the high royal seat before her sat Henry. Elizabeth smiled at her representation of the English king. The man looked aged and heavyset, and Anne’s arms were reaching out toward the king in a manner of confident entreaty.

The likeness of Henry was probably enough for a beheading, Elizabeth thought, if she ever dared step foot again on English soil.

The gentle knock at the door froze Elizabeth where she stood. She wiped her wet palms on her skirt and called quietly for her porter to step in.

She watched in anticipation as the heavy door swung partially open. Instead of the serious expression of the old manservant, the bright face of one of the younger servants peeked inside.

“They are here, m’lady.”

Before Elizabeth could say a word, the door pushed open fully, and a tall, elegantly dressed young woman stepped in. Elizabeth recognized her at once.

Taking the few short steps to meet her, Elizabeth embraced her sister tightly, gathering into her arms the beautiful creature. “Oh, my Anne. You are here. Here at last.”

The painter felt her sister’s arms move around her, but she felt something else, as well.

Elizabeth felt ice. A coldness as solid and palpable as ice. And she felt it instantly. She felt it the moment that she touched her. Surprised and momentarily confused, Elizabeth pulled back, struggling to hide her disappointment. She had been expecting Anne to have some similarity to Mary. Their sister had been affectionate, tender. Mary returned affection the way she breathed air. It was always natural, part of her.

Elizabeth realized instantly that she had been mistaken. That she had been wrong in expecting so much. She couldn’t bring Mary back in Anne. Each one of them had her own individual traits that made her distinct. Anne was not Mary.

Elizabeth watched as her sister stiffly extricated herself from her arms. Then the younger woman turned to Elizabeth’s gawking servant. “Leave us.”

The serving girl nodded hurriedly and backed away at once, closing the door as she retreated.

Elizabeth gazed as the hard smile that seemed to be carved on Anne’s face faded quickly. Too quickly. She wondered why the young woman had felt obliged to put on such a false show of joy. She stood silently, somewhat amazed at the hardness of the sparkling black eyes that were riveted to her own.

Anne’s look was not one of sisterly affection.

Finally the younger woman turned from Elizabeth and unclasped the traveling cloak that she wore. Now Elizabeth could fully appreciate the bright scarlet dress that Anne wore beneath. Sleeves of silk interwoven with fine gold thread puffed fashionably from long slits in the arms of the garment, catching Elizabeth’s eye.

The elder sister watched in silence as Anne straightened and fluffed the sleeves, assuring herself that the lines of each showed appropriately.

“You look beautiful in this dress, Anne. You’ve grown so much. So refined, so perfect.” Elizabeth smiled unconsciously. Hardly the child she’d seen last. “And you wear the cloth of gold. The English king’s—”

“It is about the least expensive thing that Henry gives me, Elizabeth.” She nearly sneered at her sister. “How could I refuse him?”

Elizabeth bit her tongue. This was hardly the greeting—this was hardly the woman—she had expected. She again simply watched as the younger woman made her way around the room, studying every furnishing, every trinket in sight.

“Not bad, for marrying a Scot.” She turned to Elizabeth and gave a half sarcastic smile. “I can see you’ve done well for yourself. He’s certainly the best that this savage place has to offer, for what that’s worth. But tell me, dear sister, what did you have to do to get him to marry you?”

Elizabeth stared at her sister, her anger gathering.

“Not what you are doing to get Henry to marry you.” Glancing away, Elizabeth moved quickly toward the painting she’d been working on. The canvas faced away from Anne. She’d be damned if she would show the brat what she’d done for her. Grabbing a white tarp from the table, Elizabeth tossed it over the painting.

“Temper, temper. I can see not much has changed after all these years.” She walked casually toward Elizabeth in mincing steps, swinging her hips exaggeratedly from side to side. “I see I’m still not worthy of seeing your work. Still think you can hide things from me, don’t you?”

Elizabeth paused. She had begun this meeting all wrong. Anne had no sooner walked in her door than Elizabeth had begun to judge her. Elizabeth admonished herself silently. She must give her younger sister a chance.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be so inhospitable. Perhaps we could begin again.”

“You and I? Begin again?” The young woman stood facing her in the center of the room, her laugh short and joyless. “I wouldn’t even bother.”

“Why are you here, Anne?” Elizabeth asked shortly. “It must have been a long journey for you.”

She smiled. “To pay you back, sister dear, for all your kindnesses of the past.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Ha!” Anne laughed again, loudly and without mirth. “Well, we do agree on something.”

“Then?” Elizabeth could feel herself getting edgy as the young woman approached. Her sister’s large black eyes were locked on her, and Anne looked like an animal ready to pounce.

“As I told you before, I came here to repay you.” She stopped on the opposite side of the covered canvas that separated them. “But you are correct, Elizabeth. I don’t owe you anything. It is you who owes me. So I am here to collect.” Anne suddenly reached out and yanked at the sheet, unveiling the canvas as she moved beside her sister. Her eyes scanned the painting.

The young woman’s laugh made Elizabeth cringe. It was a cold and hollow laugh. She could hear no ring of emotion, just an emptiness that reverberated throughout the room.

“I’ve heard people speak of your talent.” Anne reached into the cup that sat on the small table and grabbed one of Elizabeth’s brushes. Without hesitation, she dipped it into the paint of her sister’s palette. “It’s true, you do indeed have a talent for your art.”

Anne jabbed at the painting with the brush and, hearing Elizabeth’s gasp, turned and gave her sister another malevolent smile as she continued. “But you are blind, dear sister. Blind, blind, blind. And simple.”

Elizabeth watched in horror as Anne used one stroke after another to cover with broad, black marks the portrait of Henry sitting on the chair.

“You see, if you had any wit at all, you would have depicted me sitting in the chair, and that pathetic old man standing with his hands outstretched in supplication.”

“You cannot control the world with a stroke of a brush, Anne.” Elizabeth reached out and grabbed the brush from her sister’s hands. Anne released it without any struggle and turned her attention again toward the room.