ONE
September, 1528
Autumn had taken England in its hold. In every lane and every village, leaves kindled into a blaze of red and yellow. The early morning saw soft mist linger, clinging to the hedgerows, and to sheep chewing blandly in the fields. Before long, gentle sunshine had burned the mist away. It lit the spires of churches, the ripe apples being picked in orchards, the hay bales stacked ready for the barn. It shone on the side of a carriage, drawn along by four grey horses, with the sign of a star and crescent moon painted on the side.
At the carriage window, an elegantly dressed lady in her late forties peered outside at the changing scenery.
“Well, I am very much looking forward to seeing Raycroft Court, even if it is such a long drive. I have heard it is the finest building in Sussex, well situated, with beautiful grounds.”
Lady Elizabeth Marwood was growing restless after almost five hours on the road. Often, illness kept her confined to her house, sitting in her chamber or taking slow walks about the garden. This long coach journey, during which she had been squashed knee to knee with her family, was taking its toll.
She wore the best London fashions to compliment her pale colouring: a gown with hanging sleeves in sea-green, embroidered with Venetian silver and decorated with pearls. Her once-golden hair, now streaked white at the temples, was drawn back under a white coif, on top of which was placed a half-moon French hood, after she had grudgingly accepted the new style was here to stay. The best clothes, though, for all their beauty, had a habit of being stiff and uncomfortable.
“And I will be grateful for a chance to rest. Anyone who says that travel is nothing more than sitting still has never journeyed any distance in a carriage. All this bumping and jostling around is quite exhausting. I shall be covered in bruises, I am sure!”
Illness showed itself in her face. Her delicate features were now pinched, and the taut skin over her cheekbones was paper-thin. In recent years, she had seen the best London doctors, including those recommended by the queen herself, who had prescribed dietary changes and the letting of her blood, but her malady came and went, sometimes as a faintness, or an ache in her breast and side. Only rest made a difference. Sometimes she was as weak as a babe, whilst at other times, the life seemed to return to her.
“Does no one else feel thrown about like rocks in a sack?” she asked the rest of the carriage. “Or is it just me?”
Seated opposite, her eighteen-year-old daughter Thomasin was a little more patient.
“Here, Mother, take another of these cushions for your back. It won’t be much longer now, then you will be able to rest. The worst of the journey is over.”
Thomasin passed across one of the tasselled silver cushions. Her mother wriggled, elbowing Thomasin’s elder sister Cecilia in the process.
“Mother, be careful, would you?”
“Well, you might move over a little. You have all that space beside you, whilst I am squashed up against the side here.”
Cecilia sighed and made a fuss about inching along the padded seat. At least there were only two of them on that side, thought Thomasin, whilst she had to share the opposite seat with both her father and cousin Ellen.
Having been in the service of Queen Catherine, travelling about the country from Windsor, to Hampton, to Greenwich, Thomasin Marwood was accustomed to the long hours of waiting. If she’d had the choice, she would have preferred to be riding on horseback alongside them, with her long dark hair flying in the wind, rather than trapped inside the Marwood carriage.
Her mother would never have allowed it, of course, if only to preserve Thomasin’s new dress: a deep forest-green velvet, inlaid with an embroidered stomacher in white and yellow, and a string of pearls. She had to look the part, Elizabeth said. There was no point serving the queen if you looked like a kitchen maid, and she had to always be alert, as you never knew who you might meet. Her mother was referring to a husband, of course. She was always on the lookout for potential husbands for both her elder daughters, who were now, at eighteen and twenty, well past the usual age of marriage. There was plenty of time for that, though. Thomasin had had her heart bruised already, and was in no hurry to become any man’s wife.
She followed her mother’s gaze through the window, seeking the brief glimpses of countryside visible from the road. Flashes of green and yellow, blocks of brown. They were driving through a spectacular holloway, a sunken road typical of this part of southern England. Overhead, the trees met in a canopy, sending long shadows snaking across the track. They had left their Suffolk home, Eastwell Hall, first thing that morning and the roads were clear and dry, so they were making good speed. Another hour should bring them within sight of Raycroft, Sir Hugh Truegood’s country seat. Perhaps not even that much.
“I am looking forward to it, as well,” said Cecilia, readjusting her skirts. “It’s so thrilling to be invited to such a distinguished house. I do hope we will make a good impression.”
“Of course we shall,” said Lady Elizabeth, surprised. “How could we not? We chose our clothing with care, we have new shoes, and thankfully our manners are always impeccable.”
Thomasin turned her head aside to conceal her smile.
The startling likeness between the two women opposite was even more apparent due to their proximity, with their icy blonde colouring, their straight noses and their clear, water-like eyes. They had even co-ordinated their clothing; Cecilia’s cream-coloured dress had pale green sleeves and silver details like that of her mother, with the addition of miniver fur on her lower arms. Despite having spent most of her years in the Suffolk countryside, she had perfected a regal manner and, even in the coach, carried herself with elegance. At first glance, the eldest Marwood daughter appeared as aloof and haughty as her mother could be. Yet twenty-year-old Cecilia had learned some harsh lessons, and was no longer the romantic country girl chasing an ideal that she had been this time last year.
“It’s so long since I have been anywhere at all,” Cecilia continued. “Another year in the country, when I should have been married. I want to see new places and new people.”
No one flinched when she spoke of marriage, but they were all thinking the same thing. Cecilia’s wedding would have gone ahead last autumn, had she not been wooed secretly by the frivolous William Hatton, who had then deserted her and brought shame upon them all. They had all tried to blot out the memory of turning up at the king’s chapel, only to discover that the secret was all over court and the bridegroom had left. Only time had lessened the sting.
Cecilia carried on, her thoughts racing ahead. “And I am so excited to return to London.”
Sitting there now, in her delicate gown, Cecilia looked as innocent as the spring. But she had always looked that way, Thomasin remembered. At eight, she could pull the cat’s tail and lock Thomasin in the barn, or she could tell a barefaced lie, and still have the face of an angel.
“Well, we shall see,” said their mother, patting Cecilia’s arm.
Thomasin looked outside again. She was excited about the visit, as they all were. A few days as a guest on a country estate would be very pleasant. Sir Hugh Truegood was a friend they had met in the spring, a real gentleman — handsome, accomplished, and intelligent. But staying with him at Raycroft wasn’t what was really stirring her blood. Her mind was already skipping ahead to what would come afterwards.
After their stay with Truegood, the Marwood family were to part ways. Thomasin and her cousin Ellen were returning to Queen Catherine’s household at Westminster. The glorious, glittering, troubled court, like a diamond with all its brittle edges and brightness. The queen had written to them only last week, summoning them back to her side, and both were keen to go. Thomasin’s parents and Cecilia would stay with Sir Matthew Russell, Thomasin’s uncle, in his London residence, the ancient Monk’s Place. If all turned out well, they might also pay a visit to the court, and their paths would cross again. It would be good to see her uncle Matthew, Thomasin thought, as he had always been so kind. Cecilia’s broken engagement may not have been forgotten, though. William Hatton had proved that he could blithely carry on with the courtly game, but it was not so easy for a woman to bounce back from scandal.
