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The Dauphin finally stops kicking in his cradle and drifts asleep between one grin and the next; Anne strokes a fingertip over one of his cheeks and leaves him to the attentions of his nurse.
These private moments, with her son, with herself, not on show, are few and far between.
Constance is waiting in her bedchamber, pinning her hair up into a complicated style in the mirror. Anne takes quiet steps across the floor, managing to make it all the way to Constance’s back before the other woman notices her, a broad smile sweeping across her face as she turns, half her hair still falling deliciously around her bared shoulders. Anne winds a lock around her finger as she kisses her, another moment for private enjoyment, not public.
Constance’s hands fall to Anne’s waist, to the soft silk of her gown, simple as her dresses ever are. Anne has her clothes for wearing in public, battle armour inlaid with jewels and stiff with dignity, heavy and grand and immaculate as a queen’s should be. She has fewer everyday gowns for wearing in her own chambers; more comfortable, easier to move in, and, of course, far easier for Constance to undo, pulling at the pins holding Anne’s bodice together until it slips, leaving Constance free to slide her fingers up Anne’s bared arms, over where her breasts spill from the top of her corset.
Anne does not have nearly enough of these private, intimate moments; she cherishes each of them.