by Mavis Cheek
Catherine Howard is not there – for when her head left her body her portraits left the walls. Anna is rather relieved. Katherine Parr is there – and very pious and plain she looks too. Anna thinks she can hardly be blamed for suggesting that she was more lovely than the King’s last wife. Fortunately by then he wanted a nurse, not a beauty, and Anna remained free.
It is time. The exhibition opens. The portraits are still and silent and whatever their thoughts and memories they remain very properly held in their paint. Anna wonders, though without much hope, if she will see again that Murdoch woman and the plain woman who seemed to understand her. It would be amusing, maybe a triumph, and a counter to the insults but it is unlikely . . . And then, just as Anna moves on from thoughts of Miss Murdoch to settle somewhere altogether happier – perhaps her Hurcott kitchen – just at that moment – when the lights of the exhibition space go on – she sees what might be a conjured phantom, but which – on closer inspection – is not. She sees Miss Murdoch, Yes, in that same grey suit, marching towards her, a light of determination in her eyes. Astonishing. Anna has to quickly close her mouth or the whole of Holbein’s history might need to be rewritten and somebody real might see and die of it.
But Miss Murdoch turns her back on Anna and faces the Ditchley portrait. She stares up as Elizabeth returns her stare. ‘Ah,’ says Miss Murdoch, giving a little sigh, ‘how beautiful. How brilliant. If only . . .’ Then she turns to Anna. ‘Ah well,’ she says. ‘You look a little better than I remember. Perhaps this lighting suits you.’ So that Anna feels her face darken. Naturally Miss Murdoch does not notice. She stands sentinel, facing outwards, her feet apart, her hands behind her back tapping her papers together as if she is impatient to begin. But begin what, wonders Anna, feeling a little trill of hope.
From another direction comes the sound of footsteps. The public has arrived. Anna looks to the side as best she can and sees that around the corner, passing Jane Seymour and Edward, comes a little group of people, led by – the woman from Paris. It takes all of Anna’s concentration not to smile. Here is my champion, she thinks to the bristling back view of the Brown Badge guide. And then she risks the briefest of smiles at Elizabeth across the way. But Elizabeth is Gloriana to her boot bows and does not respond. Apart from anything else, if she moved a muscle it would upset Miss Murdoch and Miss Murdoch, Elizabeth knows, is one of her greatest fans.
17
Brown Guide in the Ring
If Miss Murdoch recognises Flora she does not give a hint of it. Possibly this is something to do with the cherry red of her outfit instead of the widow’s black weeds of Paris. Flora is pleased. The little group gathers around Miss Murdoch and Flora reaches out and shakes her hand. ‘Sorry we are a bit late there was a queue for bag searching. And there are three of us instead of two.’
‘No matter,’ says Miss Murdoch graciously. She has not been paid for this little talk yet and her hirer does seem particularly apologetic about the extra. ‘Now – I gather,’ she says to the assembled three, ‘that you have a very particular reason for this little tour today – you have a very particular connection with the Princess of Cleves?’
They nod. Ewan gives Flora an encouraging look which Flora needs as she is still trying to get her head around Hilary’s presence. She opens her mouth to begin but it is Hilary who says, ‘Yes. My father discovered that she lived in our village. Our house is on the land where her manor used to be and he was writing a history of the village – before he died.’
They are all silent for a moment. Then Ewan says, ‘There is also a dated stone of some kind that is obviously connected with her . . . .’
‘My father discovered it,’ says Hilary, proudly. ‘It has the Cleves logo.’
Flora winces, apologises mentally to Joe Farrell for being forgotten and to Cleves for having been likened to Nike sportswear. Flora says quickly, ‘Anna of Cleves came to Hurcott from time to time after the divorce from Henry. Or at least, if she owned the manor we assume she visited it. It was certainly not recorded as being leased to anyone else.’
‘But the stone is a mystery,’ says Ewan. ‘Dates all wrong. Made forty years after Anna of Cleves’s death and no record of why. But one of us has been investigating.’ He smiles at Flora and squeezes her elbow encouragingly. Until that moment Flora had no idea such a small joint contained so many nerve endings. ‘Yes,’ she says. Hilary nods enthusiastically. So far so good. No more standing beneath Edward’s shadow. Flora will speak and she will take credit. With that decision made she takes a quick peek at Anna, half hidden by Miss Murdoch, and is pleased to see that she looks just the same. ‘Shall we let our guide begin? It might be nice to know why the portrait was painted and why Anna of Cleves ended up living in England and owning Hurcott Manor and something about her life. We can save what I’ve got to say until later.’
The guide raises her hand. Such deference is no more than she expects. She suggests that they keep any questions they may have until she has finished her planned little talk. ‘Let me have my say,’ she says roguishly, ‘Then you may have yours
. . .’ She looks at Flora and narrows her eyes slightly and a shadow of unease crosses her face. Living in the same place . . . Hmm – rings a bell. Flora gives her a big smile and hopes the cherry red will continue the camouflage. Miss Murdoch, shadow or no shadow, begins.
‘First,’ she says, ‘though I know you want to crack on with the Cleves Queen, I think it would be sensible to set the scene.’ She reads from the text in the catalogue and Flora relaxes.
‘This is a small but interesting exhibition of portraits of those ladies of the sixteenth century connected to the Tudor Court, in particular King Henry VIII, after its break with Rome. It is an interesting example of the various forms and devices in which painters depicted sixteenth-century women of rank. The child Edward is included since his very existence is pivotal to the story of all these portraits . . . It is also a masterpiece . . .’ Miss Murdoch looks up. ‘And in this exhibition –’ she casts a swift little smile in the direction of the Ditchley Elizabeth – ‘Masterpieces are rather thin on the ground.’ Elizabeth rises to the occasion and Anna could swear she has grown an inch or two. She is certainly very different from the tense little girl, starved of praise, whom Anna took under her wing.
‘Now,’ continues Miss Murdoch, ‘we will talk about the Cleves Queen – Henry’s bête noir – quite soon but I think a little background information will be useful before we do . . .’ And with that Miss Murdoch leads her little group of three away. ‘You will see,’ she calls over her sharp grey shoulder, ‘how their histories intertwine as we progress.’ Flora stays silent. She can wait. So can Anna. Miss Murdoch knows a lot of information and she wishes to show that she knows it. Let her. Ewan and Hilary are absolutely absorbed in what the woman is saying and so far there is nothing insulting in her facts. Anna’s time will come. The four of them move from portrait to portrait, Miss Murdoch talking to her party as if they have no brains.
They pause at Marguerite of Valois (who, it should be said, has newly arrived from France, never been to England before, and is as surprised to be there as are Marie of Vendôme and Anne of Lorraine and the poor little Infanta) and Miss Murdoch explains that all three young French women were suggested as possible Queens for Henry VIII by Thomas Cromwell. The King suggested that his Keepers at Calais should assemble them there so that he could come and view them and was, apparently, surprised and astonished when the ladies said No. Flora found her jaw dropping when she first read about the suggestion. If ever the ego and the man were at odds it was over this – as if the French nobility would allow a capricious heretic to indulge himself in a beauty parade at their expense. It was a diplomatic death wish. ‘Well,’ says Miss Murdoch comfortably – ‘the French wouldn’t tolerate it and so they had to look elsewhere to fit the bill.’
Miss Murdoch passes on to her much preferred and more familiar paintings of Marie of Guise and Christina of Denmark. Flora stares at Christina’s dimpled smi
le and seemingly rustling silks. They have lit her well in this exhibition but it is the light within that is beautiful she decides, remove that and the girl herself is rather ordinary. Sixteen years old. The light within is youth and freedom and the celebration of it that Holbein has managed to paint into the shining eyes, the swirl of her mourning silks.
‘I like that portrait so much,’ says Flora. And then quickly adds, ‘But I think I prefer his portrait of Anna.’
‘As you will,’ says Miss Murdoch. She is slightly, vaguely discomfited by the way Flora refers to the picture as Anna – there is a familiarity about it – and the word sister pops into her head. And then out of it again. She hurries on.
The group murmur as each story is told – Marie of Guise marrying Henry’s nephew instead, Christina wishing she had but two necks. Hilary whispers to Flora, ‘I thought this was going to be about Anne of Cleves and Hurcott? What’s Dad’s History got to do with any of this?’
‘Patience, patience,’ she whispers back, which is quite daring given Hilary’s predilection towards huff. If Miss Murdoch looks cross at this whispering Flora is not afraid. ‘We don’t want to dwell on all the others here for too long,’ she says good-naturedly. ‘It is Anna of Cleves whom we have come to celebrate.’
Odd word, thinks Miss Murdoch. Out loud she says – in what she imagines is a tone of sweet irony – ‘Patience, my girl.’ Which makes Flora go pink with rage. This is unfortunate since it is not in the plan to be flushed. She seems to have done nothing today but change colour. The rage subsides but it leaves Flora feeling nervous. Soon she must speak out and, easy as it has seemed in the planning, the doing of it fills her, suddenly, with dread. She is, after all, only Flora. Hemingway’s condemned hero might be able to spit on his way to the wall, Flora can barely swallow. It is good for me, coming out from under, she thinks, trying to believe it. Trying not to look too long at Hilary’s excited eyes.
Miss Murdoch pauses at the Pourbus portrait of Isabella/Anne/Mary and says, ‘Ah yes. The Boleyn Queen.’ She peers closely at the paint as only an expert will do. Then she steps back. ‘An excellent likeness,’ she says. ‘Excellent. And a fine painter, Pourbus,’ she says, vaguely.
They reach the portrait of two-year-old Edward, Prince of Wales. Miss Murdoch says, ‘It is a fine portrait, one of Holbein’s best in which he exaggerates the boy’s likeness to his father and uses copious red and the gold to represent enduring royal grandeur. It pleased his father enormously.’ At which, and quite unannounced, Hilary lets out a howl of anguish. Flora immediately puts her arm around her daughter while feeling – oh dear – intense irritation again. Confusing emotions. Miss Murdoch’s reaction is open-mouthed amazement. Ewan just stares at Hilary in astonishment – admiration almost – at the loudness of it. There is always one, thinks Miss Murdoch, there is always one – not quite as bad as this but I’ve had them eating rubber bands and singing ‘Portrait of My Love’ before now. But the girl’s howl was remarkably loud and remarkably unselfconscious – a dimension beyond Miss Murdoch’s usual experience. The guide gives her a penetrating look and sees that tears are coursing down the girl’s cheeks. Inevitably where three or more are gathered together there is always a fruitcake in attendance for the specific purpose of driving everybody else nuts. Miss Murdoch goes, tsk tsk. It is as much as she dares while yet being unpaid. Fortunately the attendants who are deep in conversation about canteen matters, have noticed nothing.
Flora gives the whispered explanation concerning Hilary and the mention of a father, and keeps her arm around her daughter; Hilary’s head is on her chest (dampening the cherry redness) and Flora pats her plaited head and says, ‘There, there,’ just as she always imagined she would over the years. Edward was better at it, of course, as he was better at everything else. ‘Come to Daddy,’ he would say, holding out his big, wide arms – and send Flora a look of triumph when the little toddler did. But Edward is not here now.
‘Do you want to leave?’ she whispers to the top of Hilary’s head. ‘No,’ she says.
Flora gives her a tissue, and Hilary has a tremendously good blow, a trumpet of a blow. It makes Miss Murdoch jump which cheers Flora up. Ewan gives Hilary a tentative little pat on the arm. Hilary brings up her head from the tissue, gives it a little shake, juts out her chin as if to say I will go to my death head held high – pats her eyes and – strangely daughterly thing to do – hands the damp and screwed-up tissue back to Flora who takes it automatically and hides it in her cherry-red silk where it nestles against her own, rather sweet, lace hankie.
‘Do go on,’ says Flora firmly.
‘ . . . Enormously pleased,’ repeats Miss Murdoch loudly and firmly. ‘The King was enormously pleased with the portrait of his son as well he might be.’ Just talk over the heads of the potty people, that was her motto. ‘Holbein,’ she adds with sickening roguishness. ‘Well, Holbein may have felt that he had some balance to redress after painting Anne of Cleves in so flattering a manner . . . Hans Holbein died in relative obscurity in 1543 and despite this fine portrait he was never restored to quite the same favour as before.’
Miss Murdoch scents their excitement, feels their impatience of course she does – it is part of a guide’s delight to read her audience and reel them in and out at will – it is one of the perks of meeting people who are vastly more ignorant than you – even if they do have happy families and designer mackintoshes. Miss Murdoch lowers her voice slightly. ‘And if we look at the portrait we can judge for ourselves if she was quite the beauty he made her out to be . . .’ Miss Murdoch gives a little shiver as if a sudden chill – or draught it feels like – has run up her spine.
Flora keeps her arm around Hilary. It’s quite a nice feeling. Another stepping stone, she thinks, though she is not entirely sure to where. She gives a little sideways look at Ewan. He looks perfectly happy and interested in it all. A family man without a family. How sad. Something they could have talked about in their long and fruitful lunch together – one of those romantic lunches that begin when the sun is shining and end at dusk . . . Sometimes having a family is not all it is cracked up to be. Flora gives a little sigh and decides to think positive – if she and Hilary have begun to get closer then it is not all disappointment. Not quite. Not all.
Anna watches and waits. Edward. It was in his reign that her fortunes changed. Richmond was taken away from her and she spent more time away from London. Hever she liked particularly. Its knot garden – over which it was said that Henry dallied in his courting of Anne Boleyn – was one of the sweetest in all England, and the county of Kent had good orchards and farming. It was no bad thing in those days to be far away from the court, far away from politics and religious persecution and the dreadful deaths of London and the cities. She was not quite so robust as the youthful princess who travelled so far and so cheerfully in the depth of winter to come to England – she was in her early thirties now and far less carefree – so the air and the peace of the countryside did her good. Hurcott and Bletchingley, nearer to London, were also havens, and Chelsea Manor with its riverside gardens and its benign ghosts of Thomas More and Katherine Parr. The past was her blueprint. Discretion, a quiet tongue, amenability, a hint, even, of not being very bright – all helped to keep her away from suspicion.
Somehow Anna always floated above the dangers of the times and she was the only family woman of rank considered safe for both Elizabeth and Mary to consort with. More, she was the only woman of rank who had a family connection with whom they both wanted to associate. With Anna both sisters found some kind of peace. It is perhaps this memory that makes them seem benign now. Aunt Anna was a friend to both sisters at a time when the one was for the Catholics and the other – Elizabeth – was favoured for Edward’s Reforms.
What chance did either sister have for friendship? Dead mothers at odds, religion at odds, the connecting father dead, the brother a divider – at least Anna was neutral. Even pious Edward showed remarkable fondness for her in his own way and ‘hoped his dear Aun
t Anna should marry again . . .’ That he chose Katherine Parr’s widower for her held a certain piquancy. She declined most gracefully. As did Thomas Seymour – who had his eye – silly fool – on Elizabeth and the eventual throne. But young Elizabeth grew into a sensible, cautious girl and like her Aunt Anna, she kept her own counsel.
Difficult times for them all. Anna shivers remembering how her own servants were arrested for practising the wrong kind of religion. In other households of rank if such a thing were discovered the shadow of guilt would fall upon the mistress as well as the servants – but the accepted view of amenable, unremarkable Anna kept her safe so that in those dangerous years the only difficulties Anna suffered were domestic. Why, Sir Thomas Cawarden, who became her tenant and her steward at Bletchingly, caused her the most trouble of any man. He complained at almost everything she did. He complained about how much wood she cut for her fires, he complained that she caused the park-keeper’s wife too much trouble and would not put it right, he complained that she used timber to build unnecessary outbuildings – in particular a brewhouse and an inn (how could these be considered unnecessary?) – and in his turn he was always late with the rent. Never once did he thank her for all the beautiful embroideries she placed there – all the elegant hangings – the pullin and fine needlework Anna and her ladies made – the German designs she made popular in England. So much for mocking her fashions – they were quick enough to take up their needles and follow her stitchery. Instead of complaining about her extravagance Cawarden might have thanked her, too, for the fine walnut furniture and the silk and satin bedhangings and the tapestries; for the wellordered buttery and cellar and spicery, the starching house, the bakehouse, the brewhouse (he complained of the cost of her building it but he used it, of course) and the gaming rooms and music room – and more – which surely must have pleased him. And, Anna thinks, with some pride, would it be too much for this woman in grey to mention something about these achievements instead of always dwelling on her physical attributes, or lack of them? But Miss Murdoch is not one to consider such petty things. Facts and flamboyance, thinks Anna with contempt, that is her brief.