Climbing the staircase, Thomasin had a sudden presentiment about what she would find. The upstairs chambers were quiet, their windows standing open to the spring day, the fireplaces having been swept and restacked with coal.
The girl was standing by the open window, looking out, her arms wrapped around herself. She had changed into a pale grey gown and a clean white apron, and her long hair was pulled back into a plait. Her expression was wistful, and she did not hear Thomasin’s approach.
“Mariot?”
She spun round and Thomasin could see her eyes were red from recent tears.
“Oh, my lady, I only paused for a moment. I am just dusting.” She picked up a cloth from the windowsill and began to rub it against the wood.
“It’s all right. Put that down a moment. Tell me, have you been crying?”
The girl’s eyes began to well up again, although she struggled against it, wiping even harder at some imagined stain.
“Come, leave that. What’s troubling you?”
“You won’t…” the girl stammered. “You’re not going to send me back there, are you? Back to Suffolk?”
“Why would I do that?”
“If I make mistakes. I broke a bowl — didn’t the cook say? Isn’t that why you’ve come up?”
“Cook mentioned no bowl. We have many bowls. You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”
Mariot shook her head vehemently.
“Then there is nothing to worry about. No bowl is worth these tears.”
“But there’s so much to learn. So many things to remember. I’m worried I will get it wrong.”
“You are more than capable of doing this. It is all very new and overwhelming and everyone makes mistakes at first, so don’t worry. Just listen carefully to instructions and ask for help if you are unsure. Cook seems kind and knowledgeable; she will be your guide.”
“But what if I’m not intended for this? What if I was supposed to be a butcher’s wife all along?”
Thomasin was surprised. “Is that what you truly think?”
“I don’t know. There is so much in my head that it feels addled.”
“Well, we are here for a few more days before we return to Suffolk. Perhaps then you will have a better idea about what you want.”
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Not at all. Take each task one at a time. God bless you, Mariot.”
The girl dropped an awkward curtsey. “Thank you, my lady.” Picking up the cloth, she resumed rubbing the woodwork.
Later that evening, when the fires had been stoked up and the scent of roasting meat was stealing out of the kitchen, a boy brought a letter to the house.
Thomasin and Lettice were strolling along the paths of the garden, so it was Giles who received it and brought it outside. He handed to his wife without a word. Thomasin felt a chill as she saw the familiar B cipher pressed into the wax.
“I am tempted not to open it,” she said.
Giles nodded.
“Why?” Asked Lettice. “Who is it from?”
“A member of the Boleyn family,” Thomasin explained. “A family I do not wish to associate with.”
“Anne Boleyn’s family? She who is about to be crowned queen? I know — I spoke with the cook this morning, and she told me all about it. All of London will watch her, won’t they? But she is hated, I believe, although I’m not sure why.”
