Ellen nodded. “Far away. But his words can still wound.”
Instead of explaining, Ellen simply held out the letter for Thomasin to read. It was covered in a lean, slanting hand that started neatly, then deteriorated as the message progressed. Barnaby Russell had started out by ordering his wife to return home to him in Buxton, then proceeded to beg and implore her to do so. After that, he spoke of her duty and marriage vows; how the anniversary of their wedding was approaching and that this should be the day by which she returned. Then he turned to threats, vowing that if she did not reply, or arrive on their estates by that time, he would seek an annulment on account of their childlessness, after which he would wed her sister Dorothy and legitimise her child. It was the vile letter of an odious, small-minded little man. Thomasin was at a loss to comprehend how her uncle, Sir Matthew, a fine, upstanding gentleman had produced such an heir.
“I’m sorry,” she said, returning the letter. “I do hope you will give his words no credence.”
“Not at all. I will never return to him. Now I have employment with the queen, I can be of service and I am provided for. I no longer need to rely upon him.”
“You are always welcome at Eastwell too, if you ever lack a home,” Thomasin added. “I know my parents would welcome you as a daughter.”
Ellen’s eyes welled up and she attempted to fan away the tears with a flapping hand. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”
“You are family, and worth more than that man who, by some unfortunate case, is my own flesh and blood. Will you burn the letter?”
“No, I shall keep it, as a constant reminder of the manner of man he is. When a day comes that I waver, or regret my change in circumstance, I shall read it again and find my strength.”
“That is an excellent resolve. And your sister? Will you see Dorothy again?”
“She is with our parents. She has already had more than enough kindness from me and she exploited that. Let Barnaby wed her; they deserve each other.”
Thomasin smiled. “You have moved on to better things; you are in the household of Queen Catherine of Aragon now, do not forget it. And I am sure, in time, you will find happiness again.”
“Thank you. I do not believe I ever truly had it before. I saw in Barnaby what I wanted him to be, not what he was, but my eyes have been opened now.”
Thomasin looked over to the queen. Catherine had stopped reading and was staring across the garden. “What do you make of those other letters the queen slipped into her bodice?”
“From the Boleyn woman to the king?” asked Ellen.
“That’s what I thought, too. I wonder if Henry is expecting them.”
“Well,” said Ellen, “I hope he never receives them. If I were the queen, I should drop them in the fire.”
“I hope she does exactly that.”
Catherine was looking up at Maria now, who was speaking to her in jolly tones. Catherine replied and both women laughed together.
The sun came out from behind a cloud and lit them up.
Thomasin and Ellen walked around the edge of the gardens, where the rose bushes were bright with new green growth and young thorns.
“Where is Anne, do you think?” Ellen asked.
“Still in London, I imagine.”
“At court? Is there still a court at Westminster when the king is not there?”
“For business, I think, little more. I should think she is at the family’s London home.”
“Waiting for the king?”
Thomasin shrugged.
“What was she like, last autumn, when you danced in her masque and attended her party?”
The memory was like a sour taste in Thomasin’s mouth, tinged as it was with betrayal and the time she’d spent with Rafe. “You remember what she did. She played a game with us, encouraged my sister and Hatton, then stood back and blamed all upon her. At least my sister did not chase after a man who already has a wife.”
“I do remember,” admitted Ellen, “very well indeed. And I remember that the king was none too pleased with her meddling, either. Do you think there is a chance that he will forget her, now they are in this forced separation? Particularly if he does not hear from her, and takes it as a slight?”
“He may quarrel with her,” Thomasin admitted, “but he will not forget that he does not have a son.”
