“Her good sense should have done so, or at least made her pause to question her actions. But,” said Sir Richard wryly, “there you have the problem.”
“I wonder that Hugh’s steward, Peter Southey, did not advise her against it,” said Thomasin, recalling the excellent gentleman who ran Hugh’s household.
“He may well have done so, but Cecilia is not one to take advice. Anyway, she will be gone in the morning, and I hope it will be forgotten.”
“And then there is the new year to welcome, and the feast of Epiphany, before we all bid farewell and return to our lives. It will be something of a relief to break this tension.”
“Indeed,” agreed her father, “I anticipate the coming days with pleasure. Let us hope they will be as full of peace as we could hope, with no surprise or disruption.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said More, cutting in at the end of the conversation. “Peace and pleasure in the days ahead, before the cardinals must give their verdicts.”
“Peace and pleasure,” was the toast echoed about the table.
Thomasin frowned and swallowed down her wine.
An hour passed, and another. Darkness lay thick against the window, but the snow had finally ceased falling. Thomasin was rising to her feet, saying her farewells and preparing to return to the queen. She secreted two gilded marzipan shapes into a small kerchief, one for Ellen and the other for Princess Mary. The evening fare offered in the queen’s chamber was often plainer than that served in the hall, to preserve the delicate balance of Catherine’s stomach.
Sir Richard had already made his excuses and disappeared upstairs to the Marwood chamber, but Margaret Roper and Jane Dudley were lingering, listening to the singing of the choir.
“It makes me think of our own dear Henry and little John,” said Jane, her mind travelling to her small sons, left at home in the countryside. “I wonder if they will ever sing this way, or what the future holds for them.”
“It is strange to think of that,” agreed Margaret. “To contemplate your children as adults.”
“How old are your little ones now?”
“They are five, four and two, and all girls — can you imagine? What will become of them in this world?”
“It is not so strange.” More laughed at them. “It is something I am forced to confront every day, as is your own father, Jane. But tell me, why is Edward not here celebrating with us? Do the Cinque Ports keep him so busy?”
Jane Dudley sighed. Her father, Sir Edward Guildford, was advancing in years, but had long been warden of those ports in Kent and Sussex that oversaw the Channel and provided ships for the king’s navy. “He is down at Walmer, having spent much of the last month at Dover. It is his old complaint, in the liver, the doctors think, so he is seeking quiet rest.”
“God be with him,” said More. “I shall remember him in my prayers.”
Thomasin was leaving the hall when a figure broke away from the Boleyn crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the fair-haired William Hatton hurrying to catch up with her, and hastened her steps to try and avoid the odious man. She had not forgiven him for the trouble he had caused her family the year before.
“Mistress Marwood?”
She wondered if she might pretend not to have heard him above the din of the hall.
“Thomasin?”
He had hurried a little, and was almost behind her. His rank demanded that she stop and listen to him.
She turned, slowly, but made no response. He was as ruddy and fresh as ever, dressed in grey and silver, as if nothing ever touched him. Many would be charmed by his looks, she was aware, but he was not to her taste, and never had been.
“Was that your sister Cecilia that I saw earlier?”
She didn’t reply.
“Is Cecilia here?” he pressed.
“That was Lady Truegood, as you well know.”
“Your sister? Is she staying at court?”
Thomasin turned away. Could it be that affection remained on his side? Even after his cruelty and her disgrace, and her theft of Ellen’s happiness?
“Has she left court? Please tell me.”
