“You did not suffer? You have had no symptoms?”
“I have been tired, and there was one day when my head ached so that I thought I was coming down with it too, but blessedly, I have been spared. I had none of the sweating or the thirst I observed in you.”
“God is merciful indeed.”
“When you are strong enough, we will go back to Eastwell. Your father is sending his carriage.”
Eastwell. She was returning to Eastwell. The thought of her Suffolk home was almost overwhelming. The house with its well-loved rooms, the shady avenue, the nut walk. “Really? Back to Eastwell?”
“Yes, we are both going. They are admitting no one new at Hampton at present, until the outbreak abates. The queen will summon us to join her when it is safe to do so. Probably in the autumn, when infection rates die down.”
Eastwell. Father and Mother and Cecilia and the little ones. It was all she longed for, now. But they were not the only ones she cared for. “Everyone else has left? Where is Hugh?”
“He has gone to his estate in Kent for now, to wait until this passes. Afterwards, we are both invited to visit. Who else?” Ellen mused. “The Boleyns have all gone to Hever, leaving right after the king, and your friend Rafe went with them. All save for George Boleyn and his wife Jane, who are at New Hall, in Essex.”
Thomasin felt there were others, but her brain was a fog.
“The Venetians have left for home,” Ellen continued. “They rode for Dover, to seek a boat across the channel. They are probably halfway across France by now. That sly weasel Vernier tried to come and see the queen before departing, hoping for some final truce with her, or any gleam of hope to take back to the Doge, but she turned him away at the door. Oh, all except that one you liked, what was his name? He went to Hampton with Wolsey, I think. I saw them from the corridor window. He saw me looking and tried to speak with me, but I could not hear him, nor him me. I had the feeling he was asking about you, though.”
“Nico.”
“Was that his name? Handsome man, with those golden eyes.”
“Nico Amato. He went to Hampton?”
“And he looked well, and rode behind Cromwell. I wonder at his change in service.”
“And Will Carey?”
“He left last. He asked after you constantly, left instructions and paid the kitchen staff to give you their best fare. He was last to leave and asked to be remembered to you, saying he would see you again soon. He left a letter, for when you are well enough.”
“Where has he gone? To Pleshey?”
“I believe so. To the estate where his wife is.”
“Did Rafe say nothing?”
“Nothing that I am aware of. I’m sorry.”
Thomasin turned her face away. “The world has moved on and left us behind.”
Eastwell. The haven lay waiting. That was where she would grow strong again, in the tang and mulch of the Suffolk air.
The following day, Thomasin sat in the window seat overlooking the orchard, wrapped in a woollen shawl. In spite of the palace emptying, the friary was still occupied, and in the silence left by the absent court, the regular bells and chanting voices were again audible.
Will’s letter was sealed with red wax. She thought of him pressing down on the paper with his ring, leaving the strange little mark. What was that device? A branch, an arrow? She would have to ask him when they next met. The words were written in a neat, slanting hand:
Dear Thomasin,
I pray to God that you will recover sufficiently to be able to read this for yourself. If not, and this letter falls into the hands of a well-meaning friend, I ask them, nay, beg them, to respect my wishes and cast it into the fire unread.
Thomasin, I cannot leave with you in such a condition, without trying to confess something of my feelings. Again, I ardently pray for the opportunity to speak these words to you in person, in the weeks to come, when you are restored to health. I am going to Pleshey, where your letters can find me, and will watch every day for news about your recovery.
“I must write, as soon as possible,” Thomasin said to Ellen, who sat darning a stocking. “And reassure him I am well, thanks to your care.” She read on:
Thomasin, I cannot say all I wish to in a letter, but I am fearful that it may be my only chance. So I will say what is in my heart and trust to God and his mercy, that he will permit our reunion to come to pass. I speak the truth when I say that you are in my heart and I cannot dislodge you. Since our first acquaintance, I have admired you, but when I came to know you better, I found you to be more than I had hoped for in a woman, in the situation I find myself in. At the moment, I am bound, as you know. But it may not be forever. I have no right to ask you to wait whilst I untie this Gordian knot, immense as it is, but I can only offer my continuing, unwavering devotion and love. If the king can riddle himself out of a marriage, so will I. I wonder then, if you would consent to be mine?
Yours,Will.
