Robert Dudley, who is in and out of the privy chamber, and openly admitted to the royal bedroom, declared as the queen’s most trusted friend, is courteous to me as a kinsman. Our families overlap so often—he was the brother-in-law of my sister Jane, and so a brother-in-law to me—he is the most favored suitor to my cousin the queen, and is now happy to remember our kinship. Suddenly, I have friends, where before I was living among strangers. I could almost think myself widely liked and generally admired. I start to say “my cousin the queen” just as my mother did, and Mary laughs at me behind her little hand.

But my triumphant return to court, my discovery of so many new friends, even the favor of the queen, does not compensate me for the loss of Ned. The young man who claimed me freely, of his own will, as his lover, who sought the blessing of his mother and the permission of mine, now walks past me as if he does not see me, and when we are accidentally face-to-face, he bows to me as if we are nothing more than polite acquaintances.

The first time that his cool gaze goes over me and beyond, I think that I will faint with unhappiness. It is only Mary at my elbow, her head not reaching my shoulder, who keeps me upright. She pinches my arm so hard that she leaves a bruise and she mutters at me: “Head up! Chin up!”

I glance at her, completely bewildered, and she beams up at me and adds: “Heels down! Hold tight,” like our father when he was teaching us to ride, and that recalls me to myself. I walk with my hand on her shoulder and I can barely make my feet take one step after another. We go to chapel together, she supporting me as if I am sick, and when I kneel behind the queen, I bow my head and ask God to release me from this pain.

I am so bitterly unhappy to think that Ned has given me up to avoid the displeasure of a queen who would never sacrifice her own pleasures. Elizabeth allows herself joy in her lover, but I may not even speak to the man that I love. I watch her as she beckons Robert Dudley to lift her down from her horse, or dance with her in the evening, when she walks with her head practically resting on his shoulder, and summons him to her privy chamber where they are left alone together, and I find I hate her for her selfishness, for thinking only of her own pleasure and never thinking of me. I blame her bitterly that I am parted from the man I love, and I will die a lonely spinster, while she indulges herself in a shameful adulterous public love affair.