“Mistress Marwood, as delectable as ever.”
She took his hand reluctantly. He put an unwelcome arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. She smelled the wine on his breath.
“Tell me, you little tease, when can I see you in private?”
She pushed him away. “Never.”
He laughed. “I can advance you beyond your wildest dreams, for the sake of your family. You just need to be nice to me.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ll change your tune.”
With great relief, she was returned to Carey, who was looking concerned.
“Was he bothering you? I saw him seize you about the waist.”
“I have plainly refused him.”
Carey shook his head. “He is well known at court. Most of the women avoid him.”
“I intend to do the same.”
The final chords played and Carey bowed low, asThomasindropped her curtsey.
But Henry had not finished; he was laughing loudly, galloping around with Anne still on his arm. A quick look up to the dais showed Thomasin that Catherine was aware of it too, and was following the pairing with disgruntled eyes. Yet, for once, Henry seemed oblivious, as if he had forgotten his surroundings.
“Shall we?” Carey offered her his arm.
As they turned, Thomasin noticed William Hatton on the far side of the hall. He was in conversation with Thomas Wyatt and a group of ladies, laughing and throwing back his head, without a care in the world. The familiar bitter sensation arose in her stomach, but she turned away and put on a smile.
Carey led her over to rest on seats by the open window. The summer’s day was still clinging to light, although night advanced.
“Tell me,” he said, “do you like art, Mistress Marwood?”
“Art?” The topic threw her. There had been portraits hanging on the walls at Windsor and Hampton, but she had scarcely paid them much attention. “Paintings? Of kings and queens?”
“Yes. And miniatures? Do you know what those are?”
“I know what the word means, but little more.”
“It is one of my passions. You see how I shall lecture you now: I am excited by a new artist, who paints in this style. Have you seen no miniature paintings in the queen’s chambers?”
“I suppose not. You mean small ones? Not the ones that hang on the walls?”
“Exactly those. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. A few years back I brought a young artist over from Ghent. Lucas, his name is. He has painted the king many times, and the queen earlier, myself also. His work is incredibly skilled.”
“I should like to see it.”
“Really? You will, you will. Mary thinks it frivolous.”
Thomasin noted the implied comparison with his wife. “Of course I would.”
He was engaged. “But listen, I have made a fascinating discovery. You don’t mind me telling you?”
“Please, continue.” Thomasin was enjoying this new side to Will Carey, more passionate and excited than she had ever seen him. “Go on.”
“I have found out that there is another talented artist in his family. His own sister, Susannah. Can you believe it? Her work is outstanding, truly; her touch is exquisite. I have one picture; I assumed it was her brother’s, but he tells me by letter that it is hers. It is of the queen, and I plan to present it to her upon the anniversary of her marriage. It falls in just over a week.”
