“You are a little hesitant. I understand. It is to be expected in a maid.”
His openness made her blush. He was handsome, elegant, devoted. What was it, then, that made her feelings lag behind his? Was it simply the speed at which he was racing? His comment about her being a maid made her uncomfortable. Was he hoping that their relationship would develop along more physical lines upon his return? How many other women had he known?
She stepped back. “I must deliver my letter.”
“Certainly.” He seemed a little hurt. “Now is not the time or place. I hope I shall see you upon my return.”
Thomasin watched him walk away, with a mixture of feelings she did not quite understand.
The voices reached Thomasin before she arrived at the Boleyns’ door. They were all raised in unison so that none of their words could be heard.
She hesitated, torn between the desire to listen and the need to escape. But she could not wait to be rid of the troublesome letter, so it was better done sooner rather than later.
The voices came to an abrupt halt when Thomasin knocked. The door was thrown open by the tall, imposing figure of the Duke of Norfolk. At close quarters, he was even more intimidating than his stern looks appeared at a distance: the height, the breadth, the full beard.
Behind him, she could see Anne and her father, and Mary Boleyn and Rafe, standing awkwardly, interrupted in the middle of a family debate. Anne herself was red-faced, her cheeks streaked with tears, her black eyes burning with fury.
“Yes?” demanded Thomas Howard abruptly, as if she was bringing firewood.
Thomasin summoned her courage. “I bring a letter for Lady Anne.”
Coming forward, Mary Boleyn glared at her. “You!” She turned back to address the room. “It was her sister that did it, and this one, brazen as anything, enticed away my Will!”
Thomasin was horrified.
“Is that what you do, you Marwood sisters?” demanded Mary. “Chase after married men?”
Too late she realised the irony of her words. Her affair with the king had not been forgotten.
“My Lady,” said Thomasin pointedly, but with dignity, “my mistress is the wife of the king. I cannot comment upon what choices married men make. I am here to deliver a letter.” She turned towards Anne and held out the folded paper. “It is from your mother.”
“My mother?” Anne stalked towards her and plucked it from her hand. “What can she be doing, sending it to you?”
“We were at Hever, on the way to London. Your mother was kind enough to give us hospitality during a storm while our carriage was mended. I had wished to deliver it sooner, but it was misplaced. It has not been opened, I swear. You can see yourself from the seal.”
Anne flipped it over, examined the seal and snapped it in half. Thomasin sensed Rafe’s eyes upon her. At least he knew the truth of her words.
“Are we to tolerate this?” asked Mary, but her father intervened.
“Hold your tongue. Anne, what does it say?”
The room fell silent, waiting as Anne read.
“She is well,” Anne explained, “save for her headaches. She writes of our estates, of the repairs to the church roof, of the revenue raised from the sheep, a new cook she has hired from Appledore.” She paused.
“What is it?” asked Thomas Boleyn, impatiently.
“It is advice, from mother to daughter, nothing of significance.” But she lifted her eyes to Thomasin’s. “What did you say to Mother?”
“Me? Nothing. What do you mean?”
“You must have said something to her, influenced her somehow.”
“I did no such thing. I was polite to my hostess, as her generosity deserved.”
“Listen to this.” Anne turned back to the room, quoting aloud from the letter. “‘When you are queen, be sure to take this young woman, Thomasin Marwood, into your household as a favour to your mother. She is a good girl, and her looks remind me of you.’”
Thomasin was astonished. “I had no idea she had written such a thing.” Had she known, she would have destroyed the letter rather than deliver it.
