“I abhor travel,” said Lady Boleyn. “My husband thinks nothing of jumping on a boat for France or the Low Countries, but I would much rather stay at home, away from the stresses of the road. I do not doubt it was most unsettling for you all.”
“We were most fortunate that it occurred close to a house such as this, and kindness like yours. Had we been a few miles ahead, I do not know what we should have done. And good fortune again that your page happened to be passing on that road, and stopped to assist us.”
“And the rain!” complained Lady Elizabeth. “The skies were quite clear when we left Sir Hugh this morning. Such a charming gentleman and a beautiful house and estate. Not that there is any comparison with Hever,” she hastily added. “I have no idea why he is not already married with a family.”
“He is a merchant,” explained Sir Richard patiently, “and frequently travels abroad. He has had little time to put down roots.”
“It is hard for the wife of a man who must travel,” nodded Lady Boleyn. “You spend a lot of time alone, waiting.”
There was a sweet, floral scent in the air. Thomasin struggled to identify it. It was not the usual rose or lavender, but perhaps a flower grown in the Hever grounds. Her eyes were drawn off to the dark passageways and doorways, imagining Anne sailing through them in her bright finery. Or perhaps a younger Anne, a girl of ten or twelve, dreaming of visiting the court and seeing the king and queen.
“Your family are currently at court?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
“My husband and children are presently in London,” Lady Boleyn confirmed, “at Durham House, so they have easy access to court.”
“You did not wish to go with them?” asked Lady Elizabeth.
“Court has become —” their hostess paused, her dark eyes flickering — “a very busy place. I may go up and join them presently, but it is not a prospect I relish. Lately, I have found it to be so full of noise and activity, far more suited to my children, to the young, with so many changes. Their lives are speeding ahead. I find myself unable to keep up sometimes.”
Thomasin wondered whether her parents would dare allude outright to Anne’s position as favourite at court. Her mother could not resist.
“I am sure now that Anne has the king’s ear, things must be going more smoothly for your family.”
Their hostess turned her dark eyes on her guest. “Smoothly?”
“I suppose, I mean, the situation is developing well for Anne, is it not? Now she is close to the king?”
Lady Elizabeth looked to her family for support, but they all held back, unwilling to commit to a delicate situation. Thomasin had not forgotten how appalled her mother had been when she first heard about the king and Anne.
Their hostess set herself down in one of the empty chairs. “You may be surprised to learn that I almost wish we had never found ourselves in this position. Of course, I wish the best for dear Anne. I always hoped she would find the highest match she could. And the king; I wish for his happiness too, and it may be that Anne will bear him the son he desires, if God is willing.” She looked at Lady Elizabeth. “You will recall, Lady Marwood, many years ago, when we served Queen Catherine together, as a new bride. She was so excited, so happy in those early days, and she and the king were so much in love. The whole world lay at her feet.”
“I do remember,” replied Lady Elizabeth.
“And now it has come to this. As a mother, it is difficult to witness the pain Catherine has been through. The losses of all those children that God saw fit to take from her.”
“It is indeed a tragic situation,” echoed Sir Richard, hoping to steer them away from dangerous ground. “But it all must be part of God’s plan. There is little we can do but submit to his wishes.”
Both women ignored his unhelpful comment.
“It may be that Anne will one day be queen,” Lady Boleyn continued, speaking as if she was thinking aloud. “If the Pope will allow it. And now this new court is to be held, it seems to come closer. King Henry really might put Queen Catherine aside and marry my Anne. Yet I cannot quite turn my mind to it. She was always a spirited girl, intelligent, witty, with something about her; I knew from early on that she would be unusual, that she would do something. This was why we sent her to the Low Countries, to the court of the Archduchess. I thought she would make a great marriage, perhaps to some duke, but I never imagined this. With Mary, it was different. She was more easily content, more pragmatic. Anne has ideas, radical ideas she picked up in Europe.”
The room was silent. No one knew how to respond. It was a surprise to hear Lady Boleyn speaking so openly about her daughter.
A thought seized Thomasin. “I was most sorry to hear of the loss of your son-in-law, William Carey. Please accept my deepest sympathies.”
Lady Boleyn bowed her head. “I thank you. The sweat does not discriminate. My own husband escaped from it lightly, but Anne took it worse. She came here to recover, thank the Lord for his mercy. Several times I feared it to be all over, but in his goodness, he saved her. I cannot help thinking it is for some higher purpose.”
Thomasin could not prevent the unbidden thought that Anne’s death from the sweat would have been considered a blessing in some quarters.
Rain lashed against the window panes, seeming to stir Lady Boleyn out of her mood. “You must forgive me for speaking so plainly. I am alone here with my thoughts.”
Thomasin’s mother nodded. “I understand how that feels. It is hard to be in the countryside, alone, without company. Our minds dwell overmuch on our children.”
“That is it. That is it entirely. I think I was happiest when they were little, all three of them here with me.”
“Time moves so swiftly, I have always felt.”
And it seemed that an understanding had been established, mother to mother.
