Mistress Betty had but one thought, and that was of this queen; and as soon as she had made her curtsy to the king, she passed on to greet Anne, with feelings of mingled curiosity and resentment for the sake of the dead Catherine. Anne Boleyn was standing in the midst of her ladies, and yellow was the prevailing color of their costumes. The queen, a young and beautiful woman, appeared as lovely as ever even in that hour of unwomanly triumph. The perfect oval of her face, the brilliance of her eyes and the beauty of her complexion had made her the star of Catherine’s court, and she was still lovely, although it seemed to many that she looked both ill and disturbed. She was dressed in yellow brocade with a train of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, a coronet of jewels resting on her flowing curls, for she wore her hair frequently falling loose over her shoulders. She knew that Betty Carew had been in attendance at Kimbolton, and received her coldly, although with courtesy, as if she was at once displeased at the thought of her late service, and willing to win her to her own cause.
The presentation was over in a few moments and Betty was led out of the royal circle by her uncle, who conducted her to the other side of the room. He took her to a group by one of the windows, and Betty found that he was introducing her to some stranger before she had yet put the queen from her thoughts.
“My Lady Crabtree,” he said, “this is the niece of whom I wrote you. Will you take so great a charge, albeit not an uncomely one?”
“Thou art a fool, William,” retorted a sharp voice, “to bring the wench hither.”
Betty Carew looked up in amazement and saw an old woman standing by her uncle; a woman, but one with so manly an air that the young girl was not a little amused. Lady Crabtree was tall and broad-shouldered, with a large waist and a flat chest, being one of those women whose figures are flattened out, with a great width from side to side. She had a masculine face with a large, hooked nose and keen black eyes; the face of a woman who had inherited not only her father’s traits of character, but his full set of features, even to the strong, broad teeth. Her snow-white hair was put back under a large and ugly headdress, and her garments, though rich, were neither stylish nor elegant; and though an old woman, it was apparent that she would have been more at ease in doublet and hose than in a farthingale. She was regarding Betty with a shrewd but not unkindly glance, which seemed to comprehend not only the girl’s great beauty, but also her present frame of mind.
“What is thy name, child?” this singular person asked; “Carew, I know, forsooth, but it must have a handle to it.”
“My name is Betty Carew,” the young girl answered, smiling, “and I trust I may not make my uncle sorry for bringing me to Greenwich.”
“If you do not, Mistress Betty, it will not be the fault of your face,” retorted Lady Crabtree, calmly. “What say you, Mistress Wyatt, is not my cousin Carew a fool to bring such wares to such a market?”
At this, Betty’s face flushed crimson, and she raised her head haughtily, but before she could speak, a richly gowned gentlewoman, who stood beside her new acquaintance, replied.
“Nay, Lady Crabtree,” she said, smiling, “Sir William has shown his usual discretion and kindness to bring his niece to see the world, and I am sure that so discreet a maid will take no harm from the contact.”