“That is an honour, surely.”
“A dubious honour, I fear,” added More.
Sir Richard turned to his daughter. “I suppose you have not heard from your mother? She was set to write to you, but I think she has not yet.”
“No, nothing.”
“She has again taken to her bed over this Cecilia business and is bewailing her misfortune. I am to seek out some cloves for her, as it has all set off her toothache, but apparently there are none to be had anywhere in London!”
“I will send some. I am sure the queen has plenty and will not mind sparing a few.”
“Ah, you see, now you have the queen’s ear, or rather you are her ears, you might ask her for special favours.”
“I do not really wish to be doing that, Father.”
“No, I jest, but I have been plagued by your mother’s complaints all night, so am grumpier than ever. All she speaks of is Cecilia and the baby, wanting her to come to London.”
“Do you think Hugh will send her back to us?”
“He might; it is your mother’s wish. I am to suggest that she could raise the child in Suffolk, while he divorces her quietly, without a scandal, if he is set on it, but then Cecilia is never one to do anything quietly. This is a terrible mess, is it not? I do wish we had no part in it.”
“I will write to Mother with the cloves and try to comfort her.”
“You are a good girl, Thomasin, thank the Lord. Now I will go at once to seek out Sir Hugh in his London lodgings, and I pray that I find him of a calm and sober mind.”
“Good luck with that, Father. May God go with you.”
“Family trouble?” asked More as they watched him walk away.
“My sister. Again.”
More offered Thomasin his arm. “Shall we walk?”
“I must get back to the queen, who will be keen to hear everything, although she does not yet know there is so little to hear.”
“Just across the bridge and through the gardens then, back to her lodgings,” More said with a smile.
They passed over the Fleet, grey and fast as it collided with the Thames, and set foot on the further side. At once, the shaded paths and walkways inside the walled garden put Thomasin at ease.
“The thing about families,” said More, “is that they are both our harbours and our storms. Sometimes both at the same time, and we can do little but try and keep our heads as we weather them.”
Thomasin sighed. “I know that is true.”
“But it is very difficult,” he continued, “when the careful sailors are constantly working with another who knows or cares little for times and tides. It is a frustrating task to shoulder another’s burdens, and we cannot avoid them becoming our own.”
“You speak so kindly, so gently, but in truth, Cecilia is little more than a tempest. I fear what will become of her.”
“All you can do is to gently guide her, and do not let her sink your ship. Your father’s plan sounds like a solid one. She may do best retreating to the country, where she can at least reflect on her ways.”
“And the child can enter the nursery, with my young sisters and brother. It will only be four or five years their junior.”
“Will she consent to go?”
“That is quite another matter. As a married woman, she has certain rights now, although none so strong as her husband’s. I fear it all depends upon Sir Hugh.”
“I know the man only a little. Is he reasonable?”
“I used to think so; he once seemed one of the most reasonable and placid gentlemen. But we never know how we will react when a storm hits.”
