“It is through marriage, rather than blood. They are on the side of Matthew’s late wife, the Astons.”
“And they are not legitimate?” Cecilia asked bluntly, shrugging at Thomasin’s frown. “It’s a fact; it’s the law. They weren’t born within wedlock, and that matters, doesn’t it, Father?”
“Unfortunately you are right, in the eyes of the law,” her father confirmed, “but it is more complicated. They are direct blood descendants of the old man, whereas Matthew is a descendant by marriage only, and they may already have possession of the contested property.”
“And there is a will in which they are not mentioned?” Cecelia pressed. “It seems fairly straightforward to me.”
“Matthew doesn’t really need a house in Essex, though, does he?” asked Thomasin. “And it sounds as if this disputed home is the Aston children’s home. Barnaby Russell will inherit Monk’s Place, so he is already provided for.”
“That is true,” Cecilia admitted, “but it’s a question of what is right legally, not morally.”
“That seems a shame.”
“I cannot disagree with you,” said Sir Richard. “And after all, when have men ever been content to be merely provided for?”
Ahead, Hugh and Ellen had reached a ford. The road dipped down and on one side a stream bubbled up, spilling across the road prettily before pooling away on the other. The horses picked their way through, allowing Thomasin to catch up with Ellen, while her father brought his horse up alongside Hugh.
“All is well?” asked Thomasin softly. “I haven’t had the chance to ask you yet.”
Ellen smiled coyly. “As I’d hoped. We’ve had a good talk this morning.”
“I am pleased. He seems as fond of you as ever.”
“I believe so.”
Hugh had drawn to a halt and was shading his eyes as he looked at the sky ahead.
“It’s darkening,” he said, as the other riders drew up. “We should make our return with a little more speed, as I fear a storm is coming.”
Above the forest, they could see that a bank of clouds had rolled in, its edge a flinty shade of grey.
“Come,” agreed Sir Richard, “no need to worry; we should have plenty of time to make it back to the house before the rain arrives if we are prompt.”
The way back felt shorter. At a trot, they soon passed along the side of the forest, back into the park and in sight of the lake. Facing in that direction, they could see the full splendour of the house, raised slightly as the gardens sloped upwards. Smoke was pouring from its chimneys against the rapidly darkening sky.
“Here we are, almost back,” Hugh called.
They were riding into the courtyard as the first drops spattered the cobbles. Thomasin rapidly dismounted and turned to help Ellen, but Hugh had already assisted her cousin himself.
“Go,” he urged, “get indoors and warm yourself before the fire.”
Thomasin needed no more encouragement and followed her father and sister through the entrance hall. Bright, welcoming flames roared in the hearth and Southey was already pouring glasses of spiced wine.
Thomasin’s mother was seated by the fire, with a blanket over her knees and a smile on her face. It was the figure opposite, though, who rose to his feet and drew their attention.
“Look,” Lady Elizabeth called to her husband, “see who is here unexpectedly, our good old friend.”
Standing before them, beaming in greeting, stood the impressive form of Sir Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, swathed in furs.
As they took their seats at the dining table, the rain began to lash the windows and the light inside darkened. Charles Brandon laughed and raised his glass.
“A toast to good fortune. We have all narrowly avoided a soaking today.”
Thomasin drank, along with the others. She was pleased to see the Duke of Suffolk again, having become better acquainted with him during her time in the queen’s household. He was a tall, handsome man, now in his early forties but still the best jouster in the field. Married to the king’s sister Mary, he had been a fixture at court since the start of Henry’s reign and had proved himself to be a tactful, sympathetic friend to Catherine.
“So you are on your way back to court?” asked Hugh.
“Yes, I have been down in Portsmouth, checking the king’s ships. I’d hoped to make it back to London tonight, but the storm clouds were chasing me up from the west, and I thought it best to stop. Some of the roads around here are dreadful, and I am humbly grateful for your hospitality, Sir Hugh. You are most conveniently situated.”
