“I was also at Greenwich, in the west wing, after the king and the Boleyns had left.”
“And I was in the east wing.”
They looked at each other, thinking of their parallel experiences. They had been in two wings of the same building, separated by a few bricks and mortar amid their sufferings.
For a moment, Thomasin held his gaze, then tore her eyes away.
Rafe slipped back into the formal. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your friend, Mr Carey.”
Thomasin turned her head away. The last words Rafe had spoken about her friendship with Will had been harsh ones, ugly ones.
“Was there … I mean … did you…?” He struggled to find the right expression. “Was there an understanding between you?”
There had only been a few spoken words and a single love letter, which had arrived too late. But it was not Rafe’s business. Thomasin gave her head a terse shake.
“I am sorry, still. I think you lost a dear friend. I’m also sorry for my actions in the summer, warning you away from him, and him from you. The way I spoke to you was wrong. I admit I acted out of jealousy.”
“Jealousy?”
“Of course. But I should not have done so; it was not my place. I have no right to seek your good will.”
“No,” she repeated. “It was not your place.”
A noise in the doorway halted their speech.
“Ah, here you are.” Sir Richard was peering outside in search of his daughter. “Come, we are shortly to be shown to our rooms.” He shot a hard look at Rafe.
“Pray excuse me,” said Thomasin, heading towards the light.
“I am leaving early in the morning,” Rafe said quickly, placing a hand upon her arm. “I do hope I shall see you again at court.”
Words eluded Thomasin, but his touch made those conflicting feelings arise again — attraction tempered by the memories of his cruelty. With a shrug, she disappeared inside.
“Anne?”
Thomasin froze at the name.
Lady Boleyn was sitting before the hearth, her hand raised to her throat in an unguarded moment. “Anne, is that you?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“No, it is not,” Lady Boleyn repeated softly. “My apologies, for a moment there, in the dim light, you looked just like my daughter. My Anne.”
The comparison was surprising. No one had ever marked it before, but like Anne, Thomasin had a head of thick, dark hair, although her hazel eyes and rosy cheeks may have seemed darker in the gloom.
“The Marwood girl, aren’t you?” Lady Boleyn held out her hand. “Come closer, child, stay with me a moment. My loneliness sometimes makes me have strange fancies.”
Thomasin stepped into the warmth of the fire, watching her father’s retreating back.
Lady Boleyn took her hand and placed her other one over the top. “It’s nice to have young people here. I do miss my children. Pray, tell me. What do you make of her, my Anne? I know what I think, as a mother, but it is not a mother’s love that can guide her now. So headstrong she is, so certain of her convictions since she outgrew Hever. When she was growing up, I never dreamed she would rise so high. I fear for her. She came back from France so different, so aloof. I hear the things they say about her, the things that are whispered when we walk by. I understand why, but she is truly a good person in her soul, I believe that. What do you think of her?”
Thomasin was lost for words. This sudden intimacy, the questions. The mother’s love.
It was a surprise to think of things from the other perspective. Thomasin knew too well what it was like to be whispered about, to walk through a room where everyone stared and you felt the urge to hang your head in shame. She had not forgotten, though Cecilia apparently had. But to think of the effects of rumour upon Anne, who always seemed so poised?
Thomasin sought a neutral answer. “She is very beautiful.”
Lady Boleyn nodded. “They say so, just as they said of me many years ago. You wouldn’t think so now, not after so many children.” She saw the question in Thomasin’s eyes. “Yes, I lost many. Just these three survive. I was beautiful then, praised by the poets, don’t you know? And I am not so old, even now. Not so old.”
