“Not deserting. She has given me her blessing. She understands my desires: they were once her own.”
“You know her days are numbered. The court has stagnated; the cardinals have failed.”
“Yes, there is a stalemate.”
“Only briefly. This will force the king’s hand to some desperate act. And where will you be? Luxuriating in some country house. Do you not care?”
Thomasin refused to be drawn. “As you once told me, Rafe, we cannot bind our lives to the great ones we serve. We can offer them our devotion, but our lives must be our own. I will always love and serve the queen, no matter where I am.”
“So you really are going?” He looked her in the eye for the first time, and she recalled the tenderness she had once seen there.
“I am. The queen has me until the end of the month, then I will depart for Suffolk.”
“Oh, you will be back. I know you, Thomasin. You have something within you that craves this place: you want the attention, the excitement, the passion. You will not find that anywhere else, certainly not with the sedate Sir Giles, and the years will hang heavy upon you until you come to resent him. Then you will come running back here, your looks gone, your body grown stout with childbearing, too slow for the new dances, only to find that life has passed you by. What a tragedy that will be.”
Thomasin was stunned at his words. She turned to leave.
“Goodbye, Thomasin. For now,” Rafe called after her, as she hurried towards the queen’s steps.
His prediction burned inside her, threatening to eat away at her happiness. How dare he make such assumptions about her. It was his bitterness, nothing more. He had lost her, and he needed to make her suffer, to cast doubt upon her bright future because she would not share it with him. She had been right about him all along. What an escape she had had!
Hurrying up the steps to help the queen dress, she pictured herself casting the dark shadow of Rafe clean off her shoulders like a cloak, and stepped into the bright warmth of Catherine’s chamber.
TWENTY-NINE
The October skies hung white and mottled above the twisted chimneys of Eastwell Hall. Luckily the day was dry, with a chance of sunshine, so there was no need to alter the carefully laid plans that Lady Elizabeth had been so proud of. The grounds were looking splendid, having been raked clear of leaves. All the bushes had been trimmed, the grass flattened under huge rollers, and the late-blooming autumn roses were putting on a heartwarming display of pink and yellow. The last vestiges of summer still clung about the place, reluctant to give way to the harsh winter months ahead.
The joint wedding had been delayed long enough for Cecilia to recover from her ordeal. Six weeks before, she had delivered her daughter in the old blue chamber at Eastwell, with heavy curtains hanging across the windows and the fire built up to a suffocating warmth. Lady Elizabeth, Thomasin, and her eldest sibling Lettice had spent hours with her, waiting, praying, reading, sewing and playing games to while away the hours until the child put in its appearance. They had been fortunate to have the assistance of Margery Gaines from the village, a well-known midwife who had assisted in the delivery of the Marwoods’ two younger children, Alice and Susanna.
When the pains had started to take hold one evening, a carriage had brought the sage old woman up to the Hall, and the baby had been delivered at dawn. It had been a difficult labour, progressing slowly, with Cecilia’s spirits flagging as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Still, a tiny girl had arrived, red-faced and angry, balling up her little fists. She had a shock of fair hair, white-blond like her father’s, and her mother’s clear, glassy eyes. She was christened two days later in the local church, carried to the stone font by Sir Richard, and given thename Rose. Cecilia had recovered slowly, experiencing a little fever and a lot of restlessness, which were treated with herbs and remedies that her mother made.
She emerged from the blue chamber three weeks later, refusing to remain there a moment longer, heading to her churching with the determined face Thomasin recognised from their childhood. However, as the days passed, it was clear that this was a different Cecilia. She was quiet, more reflective, with a fierce love for her little daughter.
Thomasin stood looking out of the window across the back lawns. This room had been hers as a girl, and her favourite locations spread out before her: the nut walk, the rose garden, the fishpond with its central statue. Perhaps this was the last day she would stand here, like this, the last morning she would wake up at Eastwell, definitely her last day as a Marwood. She looked down at the dress that had been specially made in London for her: the gown of pale violet, worn over a white kirtle shot through with silver. Her headdress lay on the bed, ready to be pinned into position at the last moment: a confection of pearls and tiny diamonds with a long white veil, thin and gauzy. About her throat, she was wearing the Marwood diamonds, a string of priceless stones that her own mother had worn on her wedding day more than twenty years earlier, along with matching heavy earrings and a sparkling ring.
There came a knock upon the door. Sir Richard Marwood entered, dressed in his new coat of tawny and gold, another masterpiece from the same tailor. He beamed with pride as he took in his daughter’s appearance.
“Well, I had never thought to see this day come.”
“Never, Father?”
“I feared I would not live to see it. But God, in his wisdom, has spared me for this moment. The proudest moment of my life.”
Thomasin felt tears well in her eyes at once. “Oh stop, do stop, or else you will be walking a weeping bride down the aisle.”
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I will ever be. Is it time?”
“Not quite yet. We still have a half hour, but there are guests downstairs I think you would wish to see.”
“Guests? Here?”
“They stopped ahead of the church to speak with you in person. Will you come down?”
Thomasin picked up her skirts and hurried after her father, wondering who might be waiting downstairs in her childhood home.
As she rounded the top of the staircase, the group waiting at the bottom ceased their chatter and looked up at her. Her mother was in the centre, dressed in a tawny gown to match Sir Richard’s, while Cecilia had opted for a pale watered green. Their little brother Digby stood smartly in front, now a lively, sharp boy of thirteen. Seven-year-old Alice and her younger sister, Susanna, almost four, were waiting with armfuls of flowers. To their right, Thomasin was delighted to see a familiar group waiting.
