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is far above me in rank, but—and I’ve said it before—a mother is a mother, and I don’t think it’s natural to show so little affection toward your own babe. And Lord Dorset, he’s a man with an eye mainly to his own advancement, and she is entirely behind him. In fact, I think she is the driving force in the marriage. There’s a ruthlessness about them both. If I were not so attached to their daughter, I might think of leaving. But my heart is now utterly devoted to that sweet child, so that is no longer an option for me.
    BRADGATE HALL, DECEMBER 1539
    My little Lady is now two years old and, since she was born, has lived almost entirely in the three tower rooms that comprise her nursery. On the top floor is her bedchamber, on the middle floor the room I share with the nursery maids, and on the ground floor a great chamber with a wainscot and mullioned windows. The furniture in these rooms is much older and more worn than the pieces in the private apartments, and there is little of it. Lady Jane sleeps in an oak tester bed with ancient painted hangings. Her infant prayers are lisped at a prayer desk within the window embrasure, her clothes and linen are folded in a huge chest by the wall, and her meals are taken at a plain trestle table spread with a white cloth, she seated—like the rest of us—upon a stool. The food is simple—boiled meats, boiled fish, boiled vegetables, and the inevitable daily rations of bread, ale, and pottage—and her mother has ordered that she is to eat it all up, every morsel.
    As soon as the dear child had hauled herself to her feet and was walking, she was provided with a circular wooden walker on wheels and allowed to set off at speed, gurgling and whooping with laughter, along the tapestried long gallery that runs the whole length of the east wing.
    “Watch me, Nellen!” she cries in glee, as she rattles along the wooden floor, cap dangling by its strings, red curls flying, cheeks rosy with effort. She has her own spaniel pup and is allowed to play with the cook’s daughter, Meg, a mischievous three-year-old. One day, Jane has the misfortune to clatter at full speed into her mother, as she and Meg come screaming with merriment along the gallery. Lady Dorset, who has brought some guests to view the family portraits that are displayed there, is furious and lands a stinging slap on Jane’s innocent cheek. The child registers surprise, then shock, before bursting into loud wails. I swoop on her, pulling her none too gently out of her walker, and carry her off, mumbling my excuses, terrified in case my lady’s anger provokes her to further severity.
    “There, sweeting,” I murmur, back in the nursery, as I bathe her poor inflamed cheek. “All better now.” The baby lip stops quivering, the tears dry on the tender skin.
    My lord is never so harsh. On the rare days when inclement weather keeps him indoors, away from his interminable hunting, he will spend the odd hour with his daughter in the gallery.
    “Catch!” he cries, throwing a cloth ball to her. Sometimes he lets her chase him in her wheeled contraption, she shrieking with laughter. Such occasions are rare, though, for the Dorsets are not people to allow rain, or even hail and snow, to interfere with their sport, and they are usually to be found outdoors, on horseback and surrounded by hordes of retainers and excited, yapping dogs. Jane, who spends most of her life in the nursery or the gardens, has therefore seen little of her parents during her infancy—far less than any other child I have had charge of.
    Lady Dorset’s visits to the nursery, although regular, are brisk and brief.
    “Make her stop sucking her thumb,” she will order. Or, when Jane was teething, “If she persists in that grizzling, she is to have no supper.” Jane has never been a difficult child and needs little chiding, but my lady seems determined to constrain her to a state of perfection such as few human beings have ever attained. Whenever