“Thank you, very well indeed. I was most comfortable.”
Raycroft had so many rooms that Thomasin had been spoiled with a bedchamber all to herself, sleeping deeply and waking to the sound of birds. However, it had meant she’d been unable to speak with Ellen in private, as she’d hoped.
“I have been meaning to tell you,” she said, placing a hand on Hugh’s arm, “how very sorry I was to hear of the death of Charles Collins. He was a good man, in a world where many are unscrupulous. I am truly sorry for his loss.”
Charles and Hugh had been close, both hunting and riding with the king, but the poor man had become an unexpected victim of the sweating sickness that June.
“Thank you. It’s comforting to hear how many people regarded him highly. He’s with God now, but he’s not the only one. Many good men, and women, were lost to the terrible disease. Thank the Lord, it now appears to be abating.”
Thomasin nodded. She’d not spoken to anyone but Ellen about William Carey. Gradually, through the late spring, she had grown close to Mary Boleyn’s estranged husband, appreciating his humour, warmth, intelligence and gentleness. It had been an unexpected friendship. He had taken her by surprise with his declaration of love, and many obstacles would have stood in their way, not the least his marriage. But this had not impeded his feelings. Then, almost as quickly as it appeared, that possible future had been snatched away.
She still thought about Will, remembering him in her prayers. Wrapped among her possessions was a round miniature portrait that he had bequeathed to her before succumbing to the illness. It showed an open, smiling face painted by Holbein, the visiting Dutch artist he’d spoken of with such enthusiasm. His death had left her deeply saddened, but not utterly bereft; she had not felt as strongly for him as he had for her, but perhaps that was only because she had not had time to let love grow. It was the utter waste and senselessness of his death that moved her. It left a void in her life, for she had lost a beloved friend, the one man she had truly trusted. The only man she could have imagined as a constant in her life.
“There have been no cases locally?” she asked.
“Thankfully not. The village has been clear for a month. You will have passed through it on the way here. Hartfield?”
“Oh yes, briefly, I think.”
“And you have also recovered fully?” he asked, with a flash of concern. “I heard that you also had the sweat at Greenwich?”
“Fortunately, it was a mild case, and I am quite recovered now, thanks to the kindness of my cousin. You know Ellen nursed me throughout it, quite alone, risking her life for mine?”
A broad smile split his face. “She is a remarkable woman.”
A clergyman in brown robes appeared in the chapel doorway before them.
“Friar Antony, this is Thomasin Marwood, a gentlewoman in the household of Queen Catherine.”
“It is a pleasure to welcome you, my Lady, especially given that you dedicate your service to our true and Christian queen. Will you come inside? The service is about to begin.”
“He comes over from the monastery every Sunday,” Hugh whispered to Thomasin. “And he is always most punctual, in order to return in time for his dinner. Come, let us join the others.”
Inside, the chapel was lit only by flickering candles. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Thomasin spotted her parents, with Cecilia and Ellen on one side. On the other sat Lady Truegood in splendid isolation, with Peter Southey and five or six figures behind them, mostly staff from the kitchen, laundry and stables.
Thomasin slipped into a seat beside Ellen, just as the friar began to murmur the Catholic rites.
After the service, the sun had lit up the sky with a golden, autumnal warmth. Hugh suggested that they ride in the park and assured them that his stables had horses suitable for all. Lady Truegood shuffled away on the arm of a maid, and Thomasin’s mother announced that she needed to rest, having overtired herself after yesterday’s journey, and no doubt by her many vocal exertions. Thomasin and Cecilia assisted her back to her chamber, and saw that she had all she required, before rejoining the others.
They were quickly settled in the saddle and admired the pale sky. Thomasin took to her mount at once, a placid white mare who obediently followed those in front. As they passed along the stable path, she breathed the air in deeply, moved by the expanse of peaceful greenness, anticipating much pleasure from exploring. There was much to see in the grounds, as Hugh led the horses around the lawns, beyond the formal gardens with the fishpond and on to circle the lake that Thomasin had spotted previously. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a good-sized spread of water in a kidney shape, with a central island where geese and a pair of swans had their nests. A little wooden boathouse on the far edge promised the opportunity for rowing.
After the lake, they took the track along the edge of the woods, passing through the park gate and into a field of wildflowers. The heads of the flowers, white, yellow and red, rippled alongside them in the breeze, scattered between tall grasses. Beyond the field lay a track, which led them on to the little village of Hartfield.
Thomasin spotted the church spire first, then the tall redbrick chimneys rising above the hedgerows. They turned into the central street, busy with activity, as it was market day. Horses were tethered outside the forge where flames leapt high, and the shop fronts along the way were displaying fresh bread, apples and pears, cheese, eggs, leather goods and shoes. Most villagers turned and bowed their heads out of respect to Hugh and his party as they walked through at a slow pace. More than once he paused to greet people and ask after their welfare.
When they broke out onto the other side of the street, the horses picked up a gentle trot along the leafy road back. Thomasin was between her father and sister, while Ellen and Hugh paced a little ahead, out of earshot.
“It is a most pleasant house and grounds, everything you would wish for, almost as good as Eastwell,” judged Sir Richard. “I could move here quite comfortably tomorrow.”
Thomasin smiled. “You would never leave Suffolk. Only Wolsey, or the king himself could command you to.”
“Or my brother-in-law Matthew, on this occasion.”
“I didn’t know we had these other cousins,” interjected Cecilia. “I wonder what they will be like.”
“We are unlikely to meet, unless they desire to come to London for some reason. All should be settled without a need for their presence.”
“I should like to meet them at least one, if we are related.”
