“She is indeed a treasure,” replied Catherine quickly, to Thomasin’s surprise.
“Your family are here, I think?” continued Lady Boleyn. “I should like to speak to your parents again; seeing them at Hever reminded me of the friendship we once enjoyed.”
“They are over by the window,” Thomasin said, nodding towards them, “speaking with Sir Thomas More.”
“There always was wise counsel to be found in your chambers,” Lady Boleyn said to Catherine, before making her curtsey again and backing away, to glide steadily through the crowd.
“My lady,” said Jane Boleyn, left behind in her wake, “Lady Boleyn offers you these gifts made by her own hands, from her distillery, which I am sure she meant to mention herself.” She held out a velvet bag, which contained items in glass jars and comfit boxes.
Catherine looked surprised but smiled and accepted the bag. “Thank you, Jane, and please do pass my humble gratitude to Lady Boleyn.”
Jane bowed her head. “I had better go with her. Please excuse me.”
Thomasin watched Jane follow in her mother-in-law’s wake, to be absorbed into the group by the window.
“Strange,” said Catherine quietly, so that only Thomasin could hear. “Do you think … is it possible that her mind is wandering, although she is barely four or five years older than myself? What think you, Thomasin?”
The queen’s thoughts chimed with Thomasin’s own. “She does perhaps seem a little distracted, my lady.”
Catherine nodded. “It is interesting, amid all that is unfolding. I do hope she is remaining in the country from her own choice.”
“When I stayed at Hever that night, when our carriage overturned, she spoke openly to me, although I was then a stranger to her.”
“Of what did she speak?”
Thomasin lowered her voice further. “Of her concerns for her daughter. About the path she was taking and her fears that she might overreach herself.”
Catherine could not help raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Did she?”
“She seemed to find comfort in me, saying that I reminded her of Anne, and so she opened up to me. Last night, amid the shadows, she mistook me for Anne.”
The queen suppressed a snort. “You are nothing like that woman.” She took Thomasin’s hand and patted it. “Nothing at all. You are a dear, sweet girl, of great comfort to me. Now go and spend time with your family whilst you have them here.”
Thomasin was surprised at her sudden emotion, but obeyed her command, bowing her head and making for John and Jane Dudley, who smiled at her approach.
The fire was still crackling, scented with cedar and sandalwood pastilles, and the wine jugs had been replenished. There was much comfort and gentle cheer to be had in the queen’s chambers, where Bishop Mendoza snored in the corner, More and Fisher engaged in exchanges of wit and Cardinal Campeggio introduced his black-haired son, who was admired by all the ladies.
Thomasin curtseyed before Allessandro Campeggio when her turn came around, thinking him perhaps the most beautiful young man she had ever seen, with his chiselled looks and dramatic colouring. He reminded her of one of the carved statues in the gardens, some classical ideal of manhood, stepped down from a plinth to move among the mortals.
“I am truly blessed to be here,” he said in thick Italian tones, “and to meet you, Mistress Marwood.” He gave her a dazzling smile, flashing a set of immaculate white teeth, before his father moved him on, eager to effect all introductions.
Bowing low before the princess’s Spanish doctor, young Allessandro appeared at his best, Thomasin thought. He wore the latest Italian fashions, in burgundy and a beautiful shade of rose gold, laced through with tissue and aiglets. His legs were lean but well-built, his form trim but sturdy, the embodiment of perfection. But she had long since learned not to be drawn in by beauty, not to become a slave to what her eyes saw, but to judge others by their words and actions. Her friendship with Rafe Danvers had taught her that lesson, but here she was teetering on the verge of infatuation again. She should know better!
Turning away from the Italian’s charms, Thomasin went to seek out the princess.
Princess Mary and little Catherine Willoughby had found themselves a nook in the corner, tired of the adults’ talk. Catherine had produced a little poppet: a cherished doll she had dressed in scarlet and gold, with a bell about its neck. Thomasin watched as the girls cooed over their treasure, making it speak and dance, lost in the moment with such innocent abandon.
“Ah, forgive me, my lady,” said Maria Willoughby, rising from her place and moving towards her daughter. “She is too old for such trifles.”
“No,” said the queen, laying a hand upon her friend’s arm. “Not at all. Let them enjoy being the children they are, before they must change forever.”
Little Catherine handed the doll over to the princess, who took it a little awkwardly into her lap, but closely examined the sequins and seed pearls on its bonnet.
“A year or two and they will become women, with all the suffering and heartbreak that brings,” said the queen, turning. “Lady Salisbury?”
The countess was by her side at once. “Yes, my lady?”
“The princess will turn thirteen in less than two months. There is no sign yet, no sign of change? The physical changes of a woman?”
