The field ended in a line of trees. Breaking through, they found themselves looking down at a road, which sloped past them into a shallow valley. Light caught the glint of water, the line of a stable roof. Sitting in the centre of it all was the seat of the Boleyns. A solid, squat, pretty little castle made from yellow-grey stone, far smaller than she had imagined, although her points of comparison were Windsor and Greenwich. It was even smaller, though, than Raycroft, but far more neatly made. Almost like a child’s drawing of a perfect castle.
“Well,” said Lady Elizabeth, alongside her daughter. “It’s not even as big as Eastwell. I wonder at the Boleyns’ pretensions.”
Her voice was cut off by the rain, which chose that moment to renew its efforts. They hurried forwards, down the road towards the entrance. For all her apprehension, Thomasin was grateful to have somewhere warm and dry to shelter.
A steward was waiting on the bridge to welcome them.
“Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth Marwood? My Lady is honoured to offer you her hospitality.”
Thomasin and Ellen exchanged a cautious glance.
“Please forgive me, but I must ask first whether you are all in good health. No symptoms of illness or infection? You understand why I must ask, as this house was quarantined in the summer.”
“We are all in good health and have had no contact with the sweat these past two months.”
“I thank you. Apologies again for our caution. Please, come this way.”
They followed him over the little bridge and passed through a solid stone entryway, where wooden gates stood folded aside. A few stone steps led them down into a charming little courtyard, cobbled underfoot. Thomasin looked up to see they were surrounded on three sides by timbered buildings with lead-paned windows. It felt homelike and intimate.
From an open door ahead, a middle-aged woman appeared in a grey and silver gown, her hair hidden under a hood lined with pearls. Thomasin recognised Anne’s mother, Lady Boleyn, at once, after seeing her at Greenwich. Born into the Howard family, she was still beautiful, with her aristocratic bearing and noble features. It was from her that Anne had her claim to status. Lady Boleyn had initially been the one who was favoured at court, and she had elevated her husband from trade, when Thomas was merely a diplomat.
But Thomasin’s guts twisted at the sight of her. Their last meeting had been in Queen Catherine’s rooms. Lady Boleyn had chaperoned her daughter in what became a very uncomfortable game of cards. Thomasin would never forget the queen’s brave comment as Anne won a hand, observing that she would not stop until she had won a king.
Now, Lady Boleyn gave no sign of any former unease between them, but smiled gently at their approach.
“Sir Richard, Lady Elizabeth, it is an honour to welcome you to Hever.”
“We are so very sorry to impose upon you,” Sir Richard began, awkwardly. “If our carriage had not broken, we would not have dreamed of interrupting your peace. Necessity alone forces our hand.”
Her father had overdone it a little, Thomasin felt. His words made it sound as if otherwise they would have avoided the Boleyns at all costs, which was true, but it wasn’t the message he intended to convey to their hostess.
To her credit, Lady Boleyn merely smiled. “Not at all. It is no interruption. I am here quite alone and my page, whom you met on the road, informed me of your circumstances. You are welcome to shelter here, whilst your carriage is fixed, for as long as you need.”
“That is most generous of you.”
“Yes,” added Lady Elizabeth, with a shallow curtsey, “such kindness, my Lady.”
“The village farrier is a good man, and has served us here for years. He will do his best for you, then send the carriage down to the house.”
“Thank you, my Lady, most kind.”
“I am sure it is no less than you would do, if our situations were reversed. Please, come in out of the rain.”
Thomasin blushed to think how little she would wish to have Anne and her family stay at Eastwell.
Lady Boleyn stepped aside to allow them into the timbered entrance hall. It was a long, narrow room, bright and inviting, such a relief after the rain and long tramp through the field. A fire was blazing in the hearth and chairs had been brought up close to it, set with cushions. Servants were waiting to take their outer garments and pour wine from silver decanters.
Thomasin received her glass gratefully, as she and Ellen moved closer to stand by the fire. Thomasin’s mother and sister placed themselves on two of the carved wooden chairs, Cecilia trying to hide her muddy shoes under the hem of her skirts while she stared around in wonder.
“This isn’t so bad,” Ellen whispered, leaning in.
“At least she’s alone,” Thomasin replied.
“I am so grateful that Anne is away from home. It would make this a very difficult visit otherwise.”
Thomasin tried not to think about that. She took one of the little spiced pastries offered by a servant, suddenly realising how hungry she was.
“We were travelling up from Raycroft House, in Sussex,” her father was explaining to their hostess, “the country seat of Sir Hugh Truegood. It should only be a two-hour ride to London, and we are expected by my brother-in-law, but this misfortune befell us.”
