Lady Elizabeth raised her chin in annoyance, but when her husband started walking up the road towards the field path, she had little choice but to follow. With a sinking heart, Thomasin picked up her skirts and trailed after them.
FIVE
The rain hastened their progress through the field. Although it appeared to be a well-used path, the grass at the side had grown unruly, and the trees along the boundary were too tall to offer any real shelter. Forced to proceed in single file, they stepped cautiously over puddles gathering in the ruts of the plough, and the large stones cast aside by the farmer. The ground was waterlogged after the previous day’s downpour, but at least the clog of autumn leaves made the occasional steppingstone.
Thomasin was grateful that she was wearing her sturdy leather travelling shoes. Cecilia had insisted upon rejecting hers in favour of her soft, velvet ones, to make a better impression upon arriving in London. Her leather shoes were still packed up in one of the trunks strapped on the back of the carriage.
“Oh, this is intolerable, intolerable!” she complained, slipping upon an island of wet grass. “The velvet will be utterly ruined!” Pausing to wipe her brow, she looked down at Thomasin’s feet. “You don’t want to swap, do you? You seem so sure-footed, and then at least we will both arrive looking a mess.”
Thomasin concealed a smile at her sister’s audacity. “No, thank you for your kind offer, but I do not want to swap.”
“Oh, well. So long as you’re all right, then.”
Refusing to be irritated by Cecilia’s attitude, Thomasin strode ahead. Ellen was walking alone, lost in her thoughts, no doubt back at Raycroft in her mind. Sir Richard had offered his wife his arm, and Lady Elizabeth was leaning upon him, keen to reach civilisation again.
“How are you?” Thomasin asked, drawing alongside her cousin.
Ellen smiled, revealing her dimples. “I am well, thank you, in spite of these circumstances.”
“We have not yet had the chance to speak privately. Any news?”
She shook her head. “All was the same. He was sweet and attentive, as I had hoped.”
“But he has not made a definite offer?”
“Not yet, although he hinted at it, in his talk of me being again at the house.”
“That is frustrating.”
“Perhaps. He is the cautious type, I think, despite wherever his heart is engaged.”
“But he is honest, and true as his name. I am sure the proposal will come, in time. So long as you wish for it?”
Ellen’s cheeks dimpled in pleasure. “I do, very much. It is only this business with Barnaby that concerns me. If only it could be speeded up.”
“Why don’t you speak with Father about it, get his advice?”
Ellen shrugged. “It would not seem fair, as he is Barnaby’s family.”
“He is as much your family, too. Think about it. Father would be keen to help as best he can. He has always been your advocate in this matter.”
“Now we just need to get this awkward visit over with.”
“I think I would rather sleep in a ditch!”
It was delivered with spirit, and Ellen looked at her cousin, knowing she was only half joking.
As they neared the house, the knot of unease began to grow in Thomasin’s stomach. Hever Castle. She had heard it spoken of once or twice, as the seat of the Boleyns. They had been resident here as recently as the summer, when Anne was struck down with the sweat. As such, it was one place Thomasin had thought she would never be welcome, nor desired to visit.
Her history with Anne had not been a warm one, although it had started out positively enough. A year ago, when the Marwoods were newly arrived at court, both she and Cecilia had been dazzled by Anne’s vivacity and wit. The gifts, the dancing, the favour — all had been exhilarating, and she had allowed herself to be swept up in Anne’s glamour, like a moth fluttering round a bright flame. Thomasin remembered the first time she had laid eyes upon her, as Anne stalked down the great hall in her red dress, to dance seductively before the king. She would not have thought then that such a beauty could be so cruel. Henry was ready to lay the world at her feet, but Thomasin had found her to be sharp-tongued and careless of the lives of others.
Worse, though, Thomasin feared to see Anne’s father, Sir Thomas. From their first meeting he had impressed upon her his limitless ambition, his criticism of those he deemed less than himself, his ruthless determination. There was also his son George, a hot-head, quickly roused to temper, although Thomasin felt a little more sympathy for him and his wife Jane now, after they had lost their longed-for child in the summer. The young couple had been unable to grieve properly, because the loss had to be kept secret from King Henry. It was feared that he might question Anne’s childbearing abilities if he heard of her sister-in-law’s miscarriage.
And finally, there was Rafe Danvers. The man who had stolen Thomasin’s heart, almost suffocated her with his beauty, so that she was unable to forget him. How she had desired him, this time last year. How she had longed for his touch, hung upon his every word. Those dark, dancing eyes, the blue-black hair, the firm roundness of his shoulders, the curve of his back, the way he stood. The way he had kissed her with those brooding lips, held her close against him. He had awakened a flame in her that she had not known existed. And then he had broken her heart.
Too late she had learned her lesson. For all their passion, Rafe remained an instrument of the Boleyns, dependent upon Sir Thomas for his livelihood, bound to fulfil his will. And part of that will had been to turn the Marwood family to the Boleyn cause. Desire could not conquer duty, and Thomasin could not forget his behaviour at Greenwich that summer. The beautiful mask had slipped, revealing an ugliness blotted by cruel words and drink. Could it be that everyone was corrupted by life at court? That kindness and good intentions rapidly gave way to the cruel fight for survival? She tried to blot him out again.
“Look, there!” Her father was pointing through the trees. A stream of smoke was rising from a chimney stack set behind battlements. “Not much longer now.”
