Thomasin folded the paper in her lap. His words cut her to the heart, so simple and earnest they were in their declaration. Part of her wanted to leap up in response, and cry out the answer that the letter deserved. But another side of her remained anchored, rooted in uncertainty, her feelings tepid and foggy. Underneath it all, despite his charm and warmth, she did not feel that deep visceral desire that Rafe’s physical presence evoked in her. She knew it did not mean that her feelings for Will were any less; in fact, they might be more lasting and stable for being less intense, less based in desire. They might spend a gentle life together of security, affection and admiration. But there was that core of her, still, that she could not deny. Deep inside, she longed for that thrill of attraction, the anticipation and excitement of passion.
What had possessed her to kiss Will that day in the garden? Quite simply, she had wanted to. An impulse had seized her to take the risk, and see how it felt. And she did not regret it. Could it be that over time, passion might grow between them, and supply that need of hers?
There was nothing to be done, now. She was in no position to make any sort of decision, but had to rest and get stronger. When she was safely back at Eastwell, and recovered from her illness, she would think about putting pen to paper and writing Will a few lines of reassurance.
Two days later, Thomasin and Ellen descended the staircase to the queen’s apartments for the last time. Greenwich was silent around them, with just a skeleton staff remaining in the kitchens, laundry and stables, to care for the place until it was safe to return. Thomasin had bathed and changed into one of the shifts and dresses that Gertrude had left behind in her haste. The gown she had worn during her illness needed to be burned, and it was fortunate that she and Gertrude were of a similar size and height.
Yet Thomasin had lost weight in the last week. The pink and grey folds of fabric hung off her hips and the bodice was loose about her breasts, but it would be passable until she reached home. Her long, dark hair was washed clean and hung down from the back of the plain headdress, seeming to have grown longer during her ordeal.
They took a detour round the back of the building, so they might see the roses. The sunny weather had brought them out in even more of a blaze, with their plentiful heads merging into a sea of colour. There was the place where Thomasin had spoken with Will, and there, with Rafe. She saw the spot on the path where the man had fallen, and the way down to the orchards and tiltyard. Above them on the hill, the red-brick hunting lodge watched over it all. A couple of deer appeared boldly against the skyline, surprised at the quiet, before bolting away. There was not another living soul in sight.
Ellen sighed. “It’s a shame there is no one here to see this beauty. The roses will begin to turn soon. It will be midsummer, and then the days will begin to shorten.”
Thomasin agreed. “It feels strange to be leaving like this. As if the world is continuing elsewhere and we have stepped out of it. It’s all just carrying on as before, but we are no longer a part of it.”
“Do you mind so much?”
“I don’t know. It’s been our entire world these past nine months. When you’re here, when you’re in it, it’s the only life you know; it’s all absorbing, so intense. But now the palace is so quiet, I remember there is life elsewhere. Not the same, but a different kind of life.”
“It’s only for a short while. Fear not, the queen will summon us again when she can. She will not want to lose our service.”
“I hope not.” Thomasin looked down at her finger, where Catherine’s pearl ring felt loose.
“No, we can expect to hear from her. She said as much before she left. But for now we can enjoy a summer in the countryside, away from the heat and the dangers.”
“And proper beds,” added Thomasin.
“And not having to rise at dawn or be on alert all through the night.”
“Long walks in my favourite gardens. And my family. All that talk, last autumn, about free will. Hatton and More, I remember most; this new idea, this new learning, where we are creatures that take charge of our own destiny…”
“It sounds dangerous.”
Thomasin nodded. “It’s what led Cecilia into trouble. But when something like this happens, I mean the sweating sickness, we realise we are powerless against God’s will. Are we simply living out His plan, waiting for the day He claims us?”
“Goodness, cousin, I don’t know,” said Ellen. “That is a very deep question.”
“But what is the answer? Does that mean that we submit ourselves and accept His will, or do we try and forge our own paths? I do not know. I can see both are right and both are wrong. Did you make the choice to stay behind and nurse me, or did God send you to me, to save my life?”
Ellen shrugged. “You’ve got the whole journey to think about that. All that matters now is that we are both alive, well and safe. Come on, it’s time.”
The familiar coach was waiting outside the stable block. Thomasin’s heart gave a leap to see the arms painted on the side, of the intersecting star and moon. Four fresh horses stood waiting for the journey to begin, their eyes blinkered against the sun. Their few possessions had been loaded up into a chest strapped to the back.
Thomasin turned and looked back up to the palace. Rows of dead-eyed windows stared back, and cold chimneys where the fires sustaining life had once pumped out smoke. This was goodbye.
The coachman jumped down to assist them. At once she recognised Reynolds, who had been with the Marwoods for as long as she could remember.
“Will you embark, my Lady?”
She took the hand he offered and stepped into the carriage. “It is good to see you, Reynolds.”
“And good to see you in health, my Lady. We will have you home in no time.”
He handed in Ellen, who took the seat beside her cousin. The carriage door clicked shut. Greenwich Palace was nothing but a picture, framed by the window. Then they felt the horses stir and the carriage rolled forwards, driving them away from court. They passed through the park, up the sloping hill and out through the gates, onto the open road.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Amid the darkness, a tiny light kindled. It was little more than an acorn, then it grew to the size of a thumb, before suddenly multiplying and leaping across the pyramid of twigs. Dry leaves caught hold, rolling and curling with bright edges, and the scent of woodsmoke was released into the air.
