“Our feelings matter little. We should be grateful for such a good match for your sister. It may steady her.”
Ahead on the path, coming from the chapel, Thomasin spotted Peter Southey, Sir Hugh’s steward, who was walking towards the house.
“Ah, I will speak with him,” said Sir Richard, “and see whether the arrangements are on track.”
Thomasin walked on, along the path, letting her father take Southey out of earshot. Her feet led her towards the little grey chapel, where she had heard Mass a few weeks before. Now, the outside was decorated with the flowers and greenery of the season, such as it was on those autumnal days: the last roses, Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, interspersed with ivy and sweet box.
In the porch, Hugh Truegood was standing alone, dressed in ash-grey and silver. He turned at Thomasin’s approach and she read the mix of emotions in his eyes.
“Oh, Hugh,” she said at once, unthinking, “it is hard to believe this is happening.”
Hugh shrugged. “This match is sealed as fast as my blood now. Even the king desires it.”
“The king? Henry gave his approval?”
Hugh shrugged. “Of course. Why would he not?”
And Thomasin realised that Hugh knew nothing of the false mistress plan. He was completely unaware that his bride had shared the king’s bed, and perhaps carried his child in her womb.
The truth was on her lips. A few words would perhaps unravel this marriage, as Hugh was an honest, simple man. But it was not within her to do it.
He turned to her with a calm face. “Ellen is a married woman, Thomasin. The law stands against us.”
She shrugged. “I had believed you to be in love, that is all.”
“What is love, Thomasin?” His chestnut eyes flashed. “How well do I know Ellen, to call it love? We have spent a little time together, we are drawn to each other, but we have not passed more than three days in each other’s company. How am I to know that it would have endured beyond the year’s end? We had a fancy for each other, as many young people do, but marriage is a matter for family, for dynasties, and the making of heirs. It has nothing to do with love. It is another question altogether.”
“You would have loved Ellen, and she you. You know it.”
“Oh, what does it matter now?”
As he spoke, a cold wind blew through the trees, making Thomasin shudder.
The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk appeared along the path, decked in gold and jewels.
“Ready, Truegood?” asked Charles Brandon, his eyes moving briefly to Thomasin and back again.
“Ready, my Lord.”
“Good, the bride approaches.”
Servants were advancing, carrying cushions, a silver basin, books. Thomasin recognised their black and green livery, with the embroidered oak leaf upon the breast. In the distance she saw Southey leading out the bent figure of Lady Truegood, followed by her mother, her father and sister. Without a word, Thomasin turned and entered the chapel. The sun disappeared behind a cloud.
Cecilia was dressed from head to toe in a pale apricot-coloured silk. It splayed out from her bodice in waves and fell to the ground in folds. The stomacher was embroidered with gold thread and hundreds of tiny pearls in a design of linked chains; no doubt the best that Hugh’s extensive suppliers in the Netherlands could find. Her fair hair was pulled back under a gold headdress and caught in a jewelled net that hung down her back. Large diamonds hung at her throat. She glowed as she walked down the aisle on Sir Richard’s arm, her golden slippers making no sound on the ancient stones. Thomasin grudgingly admitted that this was the most beautiful her sister had ever been.
Beside Thomasin, her mother was almost shaking with joy. “Such a match,” she whispered. “I never dreamed … such beauty … such wealth…”
Thomasin looked across to where Lady Truegood sat, amid a gaggle of elderly female relatives, with Southey behind. The old woman looked clean and alert, with a gentle smile fixed upon her face, although it was difficult to tell if her eyes were watering with age or pleasure. Friar Antony stood waiting at the front, beside two flickering candles, the book open in his hands. To his left, Hugh turned to greet his bride.
Cecilia swept past Thomasin, her long train dragging behind her along the stone floor. The scents of amber and musk lingered in the air. She walked towards her future husband like a warrior, a queen, a saint ascending to Heaven, her usually cold face beaming wide with an unrecognisable smile. This was her victory, her moment of triumph.
But Thomasin felt nothing but numbness. She heard the friar welcome them all, and address the couple. She heard the sermon, the vows they exchanged, the promises made in the sight of God. She stared down at her hands in her lap, the little finger bearing the pearl ring given to her by the queen. What was life’s purpose? What was love? She’d always cherished the idea that somehow, things would work out. Do the right thing, be cautious, respectful, devout, and honest, and the rewards would come to you. Love would find a way. But it hadn’t worked for Ellen. What if Thomasin had got this wrong? What if all this talk of love was a delusion?
Suddenly people were rising to their feet, clapping and smiling. Hugh had taken Cecilia by the hand and was leading her outside, to where the feast awaited them. Stumbling to her feet, Thomasin followed, out of the stone-clad gloom and into the blinding sunshine that had suddenly appeared. She blinked, rubbing her eyes and seeing only the hazy shapes of the bride and groom heading away from her.
It was done.
TWENTY-EIGHT
