They look at me. And I am looking at Her.

It is not my portrait. It is not my face. I sat for it indeed, and I wore these clothes, the clothes from the royal wardrobe, the clothes that signify a Queen of England. The painter put my hands in that position, tilted my face to the light, but it is not my features under her golden hood. The king has commissioned a portrait of his third wife, Edward’s mother, and had me sit in for her, like a doll, so that the painter could get the size and the shape of a wife, any wife. But the face is not mine. The painter did not have to try to capture what he called my luminous beauty. Instead he shows the sharp outline of Jane Seymour’s hood and beneath it the bovine blankness of Jane Seymour, the dead queen, who sits at the king’s left hand, admiring him and her son, from the grave; and I might as well never have been.

* * *

I don’t know how I stand, how I smile and remark on what a beautiful picture it is, how well Elizabeth looks, on the left of the woman who supplanted her mother, a stepmother whom she cannot even remember: her mother’s lady-in-waiting, the woman who danced the day that her mother was beheaded. I laugh at the portrait of Will Somers in the right-hand doorway, his monkey on his shoulder, the Whitehall gardens behind him. I hear my tinkling laugh and the way that people eagerly join with me, as if to obscure my humiliation. Nan comes to one side of me as if she would hold me up, and Catherine Brandon comes to the other, and they admire the picture and make a babble of noise. Anne Seymour, my lady-in-waiting, stays at a distance and remarks on the beauty of her dearest tragic sister-in-law.

I keep staring at the portrait. I think it is an altarpiece, an icon like those the reformers have rightly thrown out of the old corrupt church. It is like a triptych with three panels: the two princesses on either side, and the Holy Family, the Father and the Son and the transfigured mother, in the central panel. The two Fools are the worldly fools outside, while the inside world of the royal family glows like gold. Jane Seymour, overcoming death, shines like Our Lady.

Elizabeth comes and takes my hand and whispers: “Who is that? Who is it in your place?”

And I say, “Hush, it is Queen Jane, Edward’s mother,” and at once her clever little face closes up as if I have told her a secret of shameful doings, something foul and wrong. And at once—and this is how I know she has been corrupted beyond saving—she turns a smiling face to her father and tells him what a beautiful portrait he has commissioned.