“I’ll just get my darning.”
She slipped into the antechamber. Maria Willoughby was sitting in there, reading to her daughter. The other chairs, including the one Thomasin usually favoured, had been pushed back against the wall.
“Please, don’t mind me,” she said as Maria looked up. “I’m fetching my work.”
The sewing chest had been placed on the floor at the far end. Thomasin hurried there first, lifting the lid and rifling through to find the stockings she had got halfway through: a long, pale, ash-coloured pair, threadbare at the heel and toe.
Maria went back to her reading, telling little Catherine about the life of St. Anne.
The cushion on Thomasin’s chair had been straightened. Seeing that slight difference, she felt sick with a presentiment about the letter’s absence. Lifting the corner, she quickly confirmed that there was nothing underneath at all. The wooden chair seat was empty. No letter, no scrap of paper. Nothing. She lifted the entire cushion in desperation, but it had gone.
Thomasin paused and took a deep breath to keep the panic at bay. It was definitely the right chair, and no other. She liked that one because of the scallop-carved handles that were smooth to the touch. Perhaps the letter had fallen, when the chair was moved? She looked about the floor frantically. Nothing. Or perhaps someone had picked it up and put it somewhere safe? But there was nothing on the table, nor on the cupboard at the side. The letter had simply vanished into thin air.
“Have you lost something?” asked Maria, noticing her activity.
Thomasin tried to make her tone light. “Just a piece of paper — a letter, actually. I thought I had left it here. You’ve not seen it? It was on this chair.”
“No, nothing like that. The chairs had been moved when I came in.”
“Very well, thank you.” Thomasin was nodding, but her heart was beating fast.
There was no fire in the grate. Usually they didn’t bother in the anterooms until evening, but there was a chance it might have been considered rubbish and thrown into the hearth. She inched closer to see, but the grate had been swept clean that morning and there was nothing there.
“I’m sure it will turn up,” said Maria.
“You’ve not seen anyone with a letter?”
“Only the one My Lady gave you to deliver, no other.”
“And who was using this room before you?”
“I suppose we have all been in and out. Was it something important? You seem upset.”
“No, no, just something I had to do. Do not worry.”
With her heart like lead, Thomasin took her darning back into the chamber and sank into a chair.
Lady Mary frowned at her. “What’s up? Cat got your tongue?”
Thomasin sighed. “I don’t know. It’s either nothing, or else I’m in trouble. I lost something, I think, a letter I was meant to deliver.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate. Was it the queen’s one?”
“Oh no, I sent that off to Bishop Fisher. This was a personal one.”
“Can you get the sender to rewrite it?”
Thomasin shook her head.
“Well, perhaps it will turn up. These things often do. Perhaps someone took it for safekeeping?”
This idea was troublesome. Apart from Lady Mary, Maria Willoughby and Ellen, only Queen Catherine and Lady Howard were left. Mountjoy also may have entered the room at some point, although he was no longer present.
Thomasin forced a taut smile. “Perhaps.”
“Don’t worry. I am sure it will all work out.”
Thomasin sucked at the end of her thread, wishing she had Lady Mary’s confidence. She could not shake the terrible feeling in her gut that someone had hold of the letter. Even when the queen and Lady Howard emerged to take a walk in the gardens, and neither so much as looked in Thomasin’s direction, her nerves still did not settle, but remained twisting and turning like snakes in her belly.
