Thomasin breathed in deeply. This was the scent of home. Sweet air rolled in from the Suffolk fields, catching the tree blossoms, drawing up the roses. And this acrid tang of smoke in the woods was just as she remembered. At the edge of the clearing, they’d lit the bonfire to celebrate the eve of the feast day of St John the Baptist, to burn bright through the hours of darkness. All day long they’d been busy, making preparations to mark the height of summer, and the longest day of the year. Together with Ellen and her sisters, Thomasin had scoured the grounds to find the best green branches, and armfuls of wildflowers to decorate the inside of the hall. The daylight hours would stretch until almost ten of the clock, and there would be feasting and dancing. Neighbouring families from the Essex-Suffolk border had been invited and would be arriving shortly.
“Look, it’s a fine blaze now! Step back. Don’t get too close, in case the wind blows it towards you.”
At Thomasin’s side, her father Richard held out the palms of his hands to be warmed by the heat. He looked tired, she had noted when she returned, but he assured her that he would not be attending court again soon, nor could he offer the help that Cromwell desired from him in relation to Catherine and Henry’s marriage. Thomasin wasn’t sure that Cromwell would relinquish his support that readily, not from a man so experienced in law, but she hoped that it was so.
She tugged back from her face the long, dark hair that she was wearing loose. One advantage of being back at home was the freedom in her dress. She no longer needed to be laced, knotted and trussed up in all the formal garments, stockings and headdresses required at court. Never would she have been permitted into Catherine’s chambers in this old, rust-coloured kirtle and worn shoes, with bare legs under her skirts and her hair tumbling about her face.
Colour had returned to Thomasin’s cheeks. She was as rosy as an apple again, just as Catherine had said when they first met. It had taken almost two weeks since her illness, before she began to feel fully returned to herself. Most of her first days at home had been spent sleeping, while her mother gently tended to her, then she had felt strong enough to venture out into the grounds, picking nuts, reading in the walled garden or walking with her father and his dogs. The sun had caught her skin, warming it to a rich gold and bringing out the usual crop of little freckles across her nose.
From the fire they had lit on the rise, she could see back across the gentle downward sweep of green land that led to Eastwell Hall. It lay before her in all its long-desired beauty, rediscovered again in these heady summer days. Never had there been a better time to return home, with the fields rich in colour and nature at its fullest. There was the long lawn, criss-crossed with the dimples of footsteps and bright with daisies and clover. Down one side stretched the nut walk, shaded on one side by the stone wall, and planted with two rows of gnarled trees that met overhead. Beyond the wall, she could just see the sloping rooves of the stables and kennels, the outhouses clustered together, and then the uneven canopy of the orchard. Further along, the walled garden with its intense scents of flowers and herbs was her favourite place to sit, with the walk leading down to the pond, the six-year-old Digby’s pride and joy, where he sank as many wooden boats as he sailed.
Then there was the house. Red brick in the old style, its long windows and stone archways bathed in light. Upstairs, there was the prominent roofline of the long picture gallery, hung with the faces of Marwood ancestors. Down below, in the kitchens, the cook and servants would be turning the spit, kneading dough and chopping herbs.
The boy Mark would be drawing water from the courtyard well and sweeping away the straw. Scented pastilles would be strewn on the flames in the rooms where hearths and braziers burned. In the hall, bright with flowers, her mother would be watching as the trestle tables were dressed in white linen, with silver plates and dipping bowls. Barrels would be brought up from the cellar, rolled into position, their taps loosened, ready for the wine and ale to flow.
In the bedrooms, scented with cedar and lavender, her sister Cecilia would be preening her perfect gold curls, lacing herself into her best dress, in an icy shade of jade green or cornflower blue. In the nursery, her youngest sister Susannah was being laid down to sleep in her cot bed, tucked under blankets. It had been the greatest surprise, when Thomasin returned, to see little Susannah toddling towards her, who had been a babe in arms upon her departure last autumn.
“Thomasin!”
She turned to see who was calling her name, shading her eyes against the still-bright sun. Over the crest of the hill came three figures, wading through the long grass, their arms full of flowers.
“Here you are,” cried Ellen at the front. “We followed the smoke.”
The country life was suiting Ellen, who was looking rosy and full in the figure. She had a cream-coloured flower tucked behind her ear and another in the front of her bodice, and like Thomasin, she wore her hair loose.
At her side came Thomasin’s next two sisters: thirteen-year-old Lettice, who worshipped her cousin, watching her with dark, adoring eyes; and the six-year-old Alice, up past her bedtime, clutching the hand of her favourite poppet, which was dressed in threadbare lace.
“Yes, over here!” Thomasin waved. “Come and see the fire.”
The girls clustered round as the heat spread to them.
“Will they be able to see it for miles?” asked Alice.
“Miles and miles,” Thomasin replied, “and they will drive all the demons and bad spirits away.”
“Are there very many?”
“Not here, no,” said Richard, joining in. “Because we made such a big fire last year. This one will last all through the year to come.”
“Most of them are at court,” said Thomasin, wryly.
“Oh, I had a letter from Hugh arrive this afternoon,” recalled Ellen. “He and his mother are well, remaining on their estate, safe from harm. But he wrote with news from Charles Collins, who went to Hampton Court with the king. It seems that Wolsey has the sweat, so both the king and queen have already moved on, and are travelling in the country, staying at religious houses and praying for their salvation.”
“Wolsey has it?” Thomasin received the news with surprise. “Even God’s own cardinals cannot escape, it seems.”
“Poor Catherine,” said Ellen, “forever chasing after peace and security. We will pray for them, especially for her during her trials.”
“Is that the queen who you served?” asked Lettice. “I hope she is not unwell.”
“With God’s grace she will be well,” replied Thomasin.
“I wish that I could see her, a real queen.”
“Perhaps one day you will.”
“And another thing,” continued Ellen, pointedly, “all the others at Hampton are well.”
Thomasin understood Ellen was reassuring her about Nico.
