“Is that why you left Venice?”
“Ah, no.” He laughed. “I was but sixteen then, and she has married and borne five children since; she would barely know me know, nor greet me in the street. It was a lucky escape, I think. Otherwise, I would never have come here.”
Thomasin stared at her cards, trying to decide whether or not this was a gallant thing to say.
“And what of you, Thomasin?” he asked swiftly. “Have you ever been in love?”
The question took her by surprise. Her immediate response was that of confusion: yes, then just as swiftly, no. Of course she had not loved Rafe. It had been infatuation, lust, obsession even, but not that self-sacrificing devotion that she considered to be love. And Will Carey? Perhaps in time they might have reached that place, but their time had run out.
“No,” she said swiftly. “I don’t think I have.”
But then there was Nico, staring back at her with his wide smile. Did she love him? Could she see a future with him? Could he be the one?
“Not at all? No glimmer of it?” His expression was hopeful, leading.
“Not quite,” she replied. “I have certainly had … feelings. But I believe love is something eternal, life-long. I would not wish to enter it lightly, nor to walk away from it.”
“Admirably spoken. Such a love would be worth having.”
“And your Lidia? What happened to your love for her? Did it vanish?”
He looked at her quizzically. “It was not to be. We were too young, but the sixteen-year-old Nico will always love her.”
“And what if you had met now, later in life?”
“I don’t know. But I am not there, I am here. With you. No other woman could compare.”
His words were slick. Almost too slick. Thomasin laid down her cards. “Deal again. I’ve lost concentration.”
“Very well.” Nico scooped them up, shuffled them into a pile and smoothed the edges.
Thomasin sighed and looked about the room. It was a quiet evening and they were practically alone, save for Lady Mary in the antechamber. The queen was shut away with Maria Willoughby, Lady Howard was with her husband, and Ellen had announced on the spur of the moment that she needed to make a social visit. Catherine hadn’t asked whom she intended to see, but Thomasin guessed her cousin hoped to find Hugh and speak with him. She’d tried to stall her, as there’d been no opportunity yet to tell her cousin of the disastrous conversation she’d had with Brandon, but Nico had arrived at the door, and Ellen had been itching to go.
“Here,” said Nico, “your turn to deal.”
He pushed the cards towards her, and she picked them up. As soon as she started to hand them out, though, a piece of paper dropped out, different from the rest — lighter, uncoloured. She stared at it in surprise.
“What is that?” asked Nico. “Better read it.”
She picked it up and opened the corners. They had been carefully folded over to keep it flat and closed, with each flap brought inwards, turning a square into an octagon. Her name was written upon it, encircled by a heart.
“This is from you?”
“I don’t know.” He grinned. “Have a look.”
There was a verse inside, written in a small, elegant hand. She noticed the handwriting first, with its slight lean, its long loops and tight, controlled use of space. Her eyes skimmed the words. It was addressed, again, to her. But the words seemed to swim before her eyes. Certain phrases jumped out: “the depths of your heart” and “eyes like the hazel boughs in spring” and “eternally joyful smile”. She felt herself blushing hotly, failing to recognise his image of her. She’d have to take this away, read it at her own pace later.
“It’s a sonnet,” he said, as if that was what mattered most. “Like Petrarch wrote to Laura. You see the structure, the rhyming pattern; the lines rhyme in alternating couplets, so you have “rose” and “grows”, “cold” and “bold”, and so forth, in blocks of four. Do you like it?”
She nodded, wondering who Petrarch and Laura were.
“Are you sure?”
“I will have to read it several times later, to get the real sense of it, but I thank you. I’ve never had a poem written to me before.”
Something inside Thomasin was welling up, a strong emotion suffocating her from within. It was a beautiful idea, thoughtful and skilful, but she felt overwhelmed by it. It demanded too much space alongside all the things that occupied her head: her concerns for Cecilia, the lost letter to Anne Boleyn, Ellen’s predicament, even Ursula Aston. The poem seemed to rub up against them, creating friction, as if they might ignite.
“I should go and attend the queen. She’ll be emerging soon, I think.”
