“You think it is permanent?”
“It will last as long as Anne does, I am sure. He cannot swear in her favour, or in support of Henry as head of the Church, so he must remain here. I fear he will go mad without office.”
“Is there nothing else he can do? Work with your Will, or in the local assize courts, as my father does?”
“I have suggested the courts, but he says he cannot pass sentence. It is not for him to judge the unfortunate.”
“That is an admirable sentiment.”
“But it is not helping him in the meantime.”
“How about the role of ambassador to France or the Netherlands? It would get him away from the problems at court.”
“The older he gets, the less travel appeals. He would rather be here than crossing the sea.”
“What does your stepmother say?”
“Very little. She defers to him on everything; she likes having him here but has never seen the court side of him.”
Thomasin recalled More at Catherine’s court. The wit around her dinner table, the conversation and debate, along with Fisher, Mendoza and Vives.
“Then we must find a means to distract him. A new book to write, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. I am so glad you are here, Thomasin. He looks upon you as quite another daughter, and no one else understands him as you do.”
“I will do whatever I can to help.”
“We will go out riding in the countryside tomorrow, and take the hawks. That will give us more time to discuss the matter. Now I will bid you both goodnight. I shall sleep more easily with you under our roof.”
Thomasin watched as her candleflame grew dimmer and dimmer down the corridor.
TWELVE
As the carriage trundled back along Thames Street, Thomasin thought how good it had been to see her friends again. They had spent a lovely four days in Chelsea, riding in the fields, walking by the river, and sharing good food and good company, but it was time to return to London. Thomasin had bid More and Margaret a fond but reluctant farewell, promising to stay closely in touch and visit again as soon as they could. Now the final arrangements needed to be made to close up Monk’s Place for a while, until such time as the family used it again.
The London street drew them along with its activity, reminding Thomasin of the difference between the quiet life in Chelsea and Suffolk, and the business of court. As they turned in through the gates of Monk’s Place, and drew up before the front door, Williams was already waiting to meet them. Thomasin could see at once that something was wrong. Catching Giles’s eye, she quickly climbed out of the carriage.
“My lord, my lady,” said Williams, bowing. “I regret that there has been a very small fire in the kitchen with no structural damage at all — just a little smoke damage and some to the oven.”
“Goodness me,” said Thomasin. “No one was injured?”
“Thankfully not, but the kitchen is … compromised. We have brought in meats and loaves from the bakehouse for your table tonight.”
Thomasin heard Giles sigh behind her. “How did it start?”
“I believe it was a case of mistiming. A spark from the coals must have caught a loaf, but it was not checked in time.”
“Cook?” asked Giles.
“Not Cook, sir. Cook is very experienced and diligent.”
“Mariot, then?”
Williams did not need to answer.
“She is very inexperienced,” said Thomasin. “Cook is aware that she needs constant supervision.”
“Yes, my lady, but I regret that when Cook accepted the position, it was purely as a cook, not as a supervisor for —” he paused, choosing his words carefully — “a young person.”
