“That is thoughtful of you.”
“I will show it to you before then, to judge the woman’s skill for yourself.”
“I don’t know if I can be much of a judge in that.”
“Oh, you will be. You need no experience, only your eyes.” He looked at her intently. “Your very beautiful eyes.”
The words were deliberate, full of meaning. Thomasin did not know how to respond.
“I should return to my father. It is so long since we saw each other last.”
“Of course, please do not let me keep you.”
It wasn’t that, she thought, making her way round the outside of the dancers. Will Carey was a strange mixture; gentle and warm, passive and accepting of his wife’s family and her choices, independent, and now this sudden rush of passion he wished to share with her. She did not know what to make of him, or rather, of his clear feelings for her, which she could no longer ignore. She felt drawn to him, but for all his circumstances, he was still a married man, and what future could he offer her unless he divorced Mary? She did not want the taint of such a scandal, especially not one so close to the throne.
Thomasin shook her head. Such a path seemed impossible.
“Dancing, my Lady?” Her father appeared at her elbow. “I have been waiting for this chance to dance with my daughter for months.”
Thomasin smiled and took his arm. As they moved into the new formation, she once again caught Nico’s eyes from the side of the hall. He stood alone, slightly separate from the other Venetians, who spoke among themselves.
“Now, you will have to lead me,” Richard pleaded, “as it is so long since I danced in public.”
They were barely a few minutes into the dance when a sudden movement caught their attention. A woman in pale green had fallen, careening down to the ground as those around her clustered to break her fall. The dance, and then the music, halted abruptly.
As Thomasin got closer, she saw it was Jane Boleyn, surrounded now by her family.
George Boleyn was kneeling beside her, propping up her head as she looked about with confused eyes.
“Stand back, allow her some air!” commanded Thomas Boleyn, waving the dancers away.
“Is she unwell?” Henry was overlooking the scene. “Overheated? Giddy with the dance?”
A dozen pairs of eyes stared down at Jane’s flushed face.
“It is the warmth in here,” replied George Boleyn, “and she has danced much tonight and drunk little. We will retire.”
Between George and Thomas Boleyn, Jane was brought to her feet.
“She does look warm,” added Henry, peering closely at her. “You have no headache? No other pains?”
They all knew what he was fearing.
“No, My Lord.” Jane’s voice was very faint.
“Take her, take her,” Henry urged them.
Jane hobbled out, surrounded by her friends, but the mood had changed. Henry was looking around with uncertainty, rubbing the front of his doublet. The dancers caught each other’s eyes, wondering whether to leave the floor or resume their positions.
“I will retire,” Henry announced. “Seek your beds, all of you. I bid you a good night.”
And he strode from the hall as fast as his legs could carry him.
TWENTY
Henry’s departure signalled an end to the evening. Servants moved rapidly into position to begin the process of clearing away the signs of revelry: glasses, cushions, and benches were all swiftly removed. The hall was almost clear of guests, but Catherine lingered in her seat to speak with Bishop Mendoza. Thomasin’s father was making earnest plans with Thomas More and William Carey had disappeared, having been recruited by George Boleyn to assist him with Jane.
Night was stealing in through the far doors as Thomasin wandered down to the landing overlooking the staircase. A sweet, mild scent of early summer mixed with woodsmoke and fresh herbs beckoned her to abandon the palace and stray outside.
