It went like this: first provocation, then discontent, then an inarticulate unease that spread throughout his body like ivy blisters. The cascade of emotions sputtered down with the burgeon of canon fire (not that he had ever been on the battlefield - where had he ever been? what had seen yet? other than the weeping of a great queen in a country that would never be his? had he glimpsed upon the tower of italy? the dunes in the orient? the silken roads? had he carried anything in his arms other than stamps and seals, and accusatory, clandestine notes? what right do you have, he wanted to ask himself, as if not he but another impetuous boy made a travesty out of his wife’s heart).
It went like this: his mouth opened, ajar, not gaping but not able to hurtle syllables into being. Then it closed and a part of him closed with it. The viscount turned away, something nameless pounding in his chest, clawing its way to a light it could not recognize. Like a lion he had seen once, in late Henric’s menagerie, he felt himself prowling and pawing the metal before them even though he did not lift from his seat. Through the entirety of his wife’s outburst (a brief one, merciful like stems cut off from their flowers, which yield not peace but natural order) George remained stolid. It was only at the passing interference (whatever her name is… Seymour) that he dwindled everything within himself so that he could speak out.
“ I will have no more of that. ”
You are my wife and God is playing mummery with both of us, he wanted to utter. How could I change you, whom I had always known? How can I embattle or embrace what I myself cannot understand? That I might have loved you or might even still, but it is like a part I must expunge from my body, like an ailment I must brace? Instead, he leaned in on one leg, presence shifting towards and stealing into her space, then spoke:
“ Whatever bile you drink from your women, I will ask you not to decant my cup with it. The Seymours and our ties with them have nothing to do with this. Do not steep the idea of a grandchild to my father into this venom you seem bent on exploring. ”
“Woman,” she mouthed back at him, silently, as if making any real sound was beyond her. Her face had flamed at such a lash, and she looked away, a single tear caught on her eyelash. She dashed at it with the back of her hand and forced a smile as she caught the eye of one of her fellow former ladies-in-waiting; hopefully, she thought, in that absent way that she did when the pressures of the immediate situation were too much, the King would marry soon, or else there would be no reason for the ladies to remain at court. Then she would have to remain at Hever, and just the idea made her skin itch. She took a sip from her glass, and felt a little more steady.
“It is not my venom you must worry about,” she said, and then she laughed. The noise sparkled out across the table, and far from attracting attention, only decreased it, as the courtiers near them turned away, satisfied that they were not witnessing an argument, but instead a delightful, if light, conversation. Still with the etchings of humour on her face, Jane ran a finger around the rim of her goblet. “It is your own that spills over me, George.” She put the lightest emphasis on his name, and when she turned away from him, their arms brushed.
“As for the idea of a grandchild,” she said, facing the room, though every pinpoint of her attention was on him, “if you are suggesting that it is my personality that has so damaged our dreams of such a child, I would hope you would take that back, given the experiences we have both had at Hever. At least, you will, if you ever want to be let into my bed again.” She glanced at him sharply out of the corner of her eye. “If that is what you want, of course.”
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