“Of course.” Taking the old lady by the arm, Thomasin led her gently out of the opposite door, into the courtyard, where the stable boys were waiting.
ELEVEN
“Tell us again what court was like,” said Lettice, groaning in her impatience. “What you ate and what the gardens were like. I can’t believe you got to see it all and I was left at home.”
“So was I, do not forget,” said Giles, laughing, although Thomasin wondered whether he had felt that he’d missed out.
“It was not my invitation to extend,” she explained. “I was there as Lady Elizabeth’s guest, so I was not in a position to bring along guests of my own.”
“Next time, then,” insisted Lettice. “You must take us both to the next feast.”
“There will not be a next time,” said, Thomasin frowning, “you know we are headed back to Suffolk after this.”
They were headed to Chelsea in the carriage, a journey of four miles east along the bank of the Thames. Thomasin was eager to see her old friends, Thomas More and his daughter Margaret, and their extended family, and looked forward to a few days of relaxation and good company before the return home.
“You might tell us about the food again,” Lettice continued, “seeing as we missed out!”
“You did not miss out entirely, did you?”
“That one gilded marzipan heart was the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my whole life, even if it had travelled up your sleeve! I can only imagine what the rest of the feast was like. But am I never to go to court? We have come all this way to London and I am to return to Suffolk again, without having been to court or glimpsed the king and queen?”
Giles raised his eyebrows: Lettice had a point. Thomasin knew it was unfair to the girl not to allow her a taste of the life that she had so enjoyed as a younger woman, but she was nervous about opening that particular door, especially as Lettice was sohigh-spirited. Sometimes she reminded her of Cecilia, and the memories of her elder sister’s disastrous debut came flooding back. She turned her head to the side and looked out of the window at a pasture of cows.
Eventually, they arrived in the village of Chelsea, a strange mixture of large country houses and smaller houses for the fishermen and boatmen who served the river. The buildings were spaced out between gardens, which offered glimpses of their treasures through gateways as the carriage rattled past.
More’s house was close to the Thames, a sprawling red brick family home set in its own grounds, surrounded by a high wall. A short driveway carried them to the entrance, before which beds of roses were just starting to bud. Their host had heard their approach and came out to meet them, his intelligent eyes warm with welcome, his hair a little greyer than before. Thomas More was now in his mid-fifties and in the intervening four years since Thomasin had left court, he had changed little. The letters they exchanged regularly were full of affection and wit. Although he was old enough to be her father, she could truly count him as one of her best friends.
“Welcome! Welcome,” he said, coming forward to embrace her as she climbed down from the carriage. “What a blessing this day is. How long we have waited for this.”
Thomasin hugged him tightly. “I have missed you so much. It is so very good to be here at last. And you remember my husband, Giles.”
More shook his hand enthusiastically. “I am so very glad to see you, my lord, very glad indeed.”
“And my younger sister Lettice.”
The girl came forward shyly and More made a bow and kissed her hand. “Another Marwood sister. You are most welcome to my home; yes, you have the family look about you! Now, come inside and have some refreshment. Margaret is waiting.”
They were ushered into an elegant hallway, lined with dark wood, upon which hung portraits, maps and sketches. There was a faint scent of citrus and sage. A tall cupboard displayed plate, but Thomasin’s eyes were drawn to the musical instruments dotted about the place and the shelves of books. A bright fire burned at the far end, but More walked past it.
“Our family tend to use the room out the back here.”
Thomasin could see why at once. The wide chamber was light and airy, with long windows and an open door leading out into the garden. Green curtains gave it a cosy feel and the woven rushes underfoot absorbed their sound. Thomasin’s eyes were drawn by an unusual clock hanging on the wall beside her, set in its own glass case, with long pendulums hanging down.
“Oh, you are here!”
Margaret Roper, More’s daughter, came rushing in from the garden, straight into her friend’s arms. She was dark-haired, with her father’s quick eyes, a sharp nose and pert mouth. It was easy to tell from her unlaced gown that she was expecting a child in a few months’ time. Like Anne Boleyn, Thomasin thought. Which of them would deliver first?
“What a sight for sore eyes you are, Thomasin Marwood!”
“Waterson now,” she smiled, indicating her husband.
“The famous Lord Waterson. How wonderful to see you again.” She curtseyed, slightly awkwardly due to her girth. “We expect great things from you, having managed to ensnare our Thomasin.”
“Giles, please.” He smiled. “We are so delighted to be here.”
“And this is my wife Alice,” added More, as a second woman appeared from the garden, “a most excellent hostess, among many other things.” Thomasin had never met More’s wife before, as she preferred to stay at home in Chelsea while he was at court. She took an instant liking to the woman, who was short with soft features and a kind mouth.
“I shall call for wine and cakes,” she said. “I hope your journey was not too arduous.”
