“I can’t believe we’re almost here!” cried Lettice, trying to lean out of her window to get a better look. “I think I can already see them! There are more houses up ahead and a dark line; perhaps that is them?”
Mariot, though, did not move. Her pale face was even paler than usual, her dark eyes looking huge. “Are you quite well?”Thomasin asked her. “It is a little daunting going to London for the first time.”
“It’s not that, my lady. I’m just a little queasy.”
“Oh, of course. Just sit still. We shall be there soon enough now.”
Thomasin mentally berated herself for not anticipating this; she should have brought some ginger cordial or mint leaves for the girl to chew upon. She would try to remember for the return journey.
The carriage trundled along Shoreditch Street as it ran into Bishopsgate, with its grand houses and gardens lining the route, until Thomasin spotted the outline of Bethlehem Hospital and St Botolph’s Church came into sight. She had seen them many times on her travels in and out of the city.
“Look, here are the walls,” she said, “and the gate itself, through which we will enter the city. Then you’ll see a change.”
The houses were denser now, smaller and more closely packed, with inns and stables on either side, and people on foot in the street. The gate itself loomed solid with its round stone towers and crenelated top; their wheels rattled over the wooden bridge, carrying them over the ditch beneath.
Thomasin had been right. Once they were inside the city, the world around them changed completely. Everything was busier, faster, fuller. The streets were lined with imposing buildings, tall, timber-framed houses and shops, leaning forward as if they would topple onto the people below. On every street corner, there were more churches, their bells pealing for evensong, seemingly ignored by those hurrying through the marketplaces and dodging carts. For a moment, they were forced to pause to allow a horse to turn, and Thomasin looked up at the great façade of the Leadenhall, a huge building for traders of corn and leather and other goods. Then, the carriage lurched over thecobbles and they were off again, heading south in the direction of the river.
The roads were narrower now and a dozen jolts and holes shook them in their seats. Thomasin wrinkled her nose at the stench of waste and animals mingled with the smoke of a thousand fires, heating the homes, forges and bakeries of the city. The sound of voices reached them, of people and animals. The trundle and clatter of carts and feet penetrated their safe haven. London had always been about the court to her; how had she forgotten what the city was like?
Lettice was quite lost to her now, Thomasin saw, half hanging out of the window in wonder, but Mariot’s knuckles were white as she clung to the cushion.
“It will be all right,” Thomasin said kindly. “Only a few minutes more.”
The light was fading as they turned into Thames Street. A little further along and the gates of Monk’s Place stood open to welcome them, set with flaming torches to light their way. The bright golden flames crackled amid the gloom. The sight of it cheered Thomasin’s heart as she recalled her first visit, and realised how much the place felt like home.
“Here we are,” said Giles, appearing alongside them and calling the carriage to a halt.
The carriage door sprang open at once and Lettice was already tumbling out into the courtyard, looking around her at the manicured space with its clipped trees and the house that lay beyond, a hulking mass of dark grey stone, reminiscent of its days sheltering a monastic order, although the glass in the newer windows shone brightly in the setting sun.
Lettice was transfixed. “Oh, it’s so gloomy! Nothing like Green Hollow.”
No, thought Thomasin with a sudden pang for her Suffolk garden,nothing like it at all.
“This is the street side. Wait until you see round the back, where the garden goes right down to the river. You’ll love it.” She turned to offer her hand to Mariot, who was attempting to rise. “It’s over now. Come down onto solid ground.”
The girl took a couple of deep breaths and tucked her long dark hair behind her ear. Thomasin hoped she wasn’t regretting the decision to come, but then again, a shaky carriage journey was nothing in comparison with having to marry the butcher’s son.
“I’ll be right, my lady. In a moment.”
The front doors of Monk’s Place opened to welcome them. Thomasin looked in surprise, half expecting to see her uncle Matthew standing there, as he used to, his dogs roaming about his legs, sniffing the air and nosing at the visitors. Instead, a thin, sallow-faced man appeared, dressed in austere black. He bowed at their approach.
“My Lord and Lady Waterson, welcome. I am Patrick Williams, engaged by the estate of Sir Matthew Russell as steward until such time as you make your own arrangements. I trust I have prepared the house to your approval.”
“That is most thoughtful,” said Giles, about to step across the hearth, before he turned to his wife. “No, Thomasin, you should enter first, as it is your house.”
With a small smile, she did as he bid. The familiar scent of beeswax and old wood rushed up to meet her, although someone — presumably Williams — had placed spring flowers and herbs about the place, their bright scents lying above those of the house. Before her, the grand staircase of dark wood wound up to the first floor, and the passage led straight through to the back door, beyond which lay the gardens.
“I have laid a fire in the parlour, my lady, and dinner is ready for service as soon as you wish.”
“Thank you. I think we shall eat,” Thomasin said. “It has been a long journey. Is there a man to unload our trunks?”
“Already being done, my lady, and a cook in the kitchen and maid for the chambers.”
Thomasin could not help but smile. “Whose work is this? You said my uncle’s estate?”
“All overseen by Mr Ambrose Brown at Lincoln’s Inn.”
“How very thoughtful,” added Giles behind her, taking off his cloak. “Come on, I am ready to dine.”
