“It is growing dark, Father. Is it safe?”
“Quite safe, never fear. These country roads are so quiet and I have brought two Eastwell servants with me.”
He strode forward to Thomasin and planted a kiss on her cheek, then shook Giles by the hand. “I have quite ruined your lovely evening, but only think of Uncle Matthew at rest with the angels, and enjoy this earthly paradise that you have.”
“Wait, one moment.”
Thomasin hurried to a cupboard at the side, which was stacked with silver plate, and fetched down a bulbous little jar.
“Here, these are mother’s favourite preserved gooseberries, from last season. Take them to her.”
Sir Richard nodded. “That is thoughtful of you.” He turned to his younger daughter. “And Lettice, I hope, is behaving herself.”
“Of course I am, Father!” she insisted.
“Yes,” Thomasin agreed. “She is no trouble at all. She may stay here with us as long as you please.”
“There may be business to attend to in London, winding up your uncle’s affairs, closing up the house in Thames Street, but the news is still fresh. I will send you word of when I depart.”
“You’re sure you will not stay the night, my lord?” asked Giles.
“No, Lady Elizabeth expects me. I will come again another time soon.”
“Godspeed, then. Thank you for bringing us the news, for the trouble it has taken.”
“No trouble. Look after yourselves.”
They went to wave him off from the front of the house, where a stately driveway led down to the main road. Giles stood in the middle of the two sisters, watching until the three horses were out of sight and silence had fallen again. The sky still bore the traces of sunset, but tinged with lilac.
“We must try and do as your father says,” Giles advised. “Think of your uncle in heaven, all his aches and pains relieved, his daily cares vanished away. He is not gone, merely awaiting us with God. We will see him again one day.”
Thomasin nodded, blinking back tears. She knew that Giles spoke the truth, but her heart still grieved for the kind old man who had welcomed her into his home.
“And now, this young lady must have her dinner.” Giles nodded to Lettice. “We cannot let you starve, no matter what. There is no help in that.”
“Are you sure you can eat?” asked Lettice, her lips trembling. “I don’t want to if it’s not right.”
“Of course we must eat,” Thomasin insisted, forcing a smile. “Come on, we will raise a toast in Uncle Matthew’s honour.”
THREE
The next morning, Thomasin rose early. A milky white sky spread above their green estate, promising another fine spring day as she pulled on her stockings and tied the laces. Giles was already up and away, seeing to his birds and dogs and horses before meeting with Rogers, their steward.
She walked down the wide wooden staircase at the heart of her home, her hand running along the smooth wooden banister. Sometimes she thought about the people who had lived here before them, stretching back a couple of hundred years, to when it had been a simple manor house. Later owners had added their own embellishments: an extra wing, new windows, crenelations, outhouses, a gateway, each leaving their mark.What will my mark be?Thomasin wondered, drawn into a morbid mood after last night’s news. Would it be a portrait? A new fireplace? Or her gardens? It felt reductive to sum up a person’s life in bricks and stone, or wood and planting. She paused on the turn, halfway between floors, looking up and down. Would future owners know her name? Would they tell visitors that this or that was the Watersons’ addition? Would the house even still be standing?
She shrugged off her thoughts and descended to the great hall. At first, all seemed quiet, but when she listened, the small sounds of the house came to her: the scraping in the kitchen, the rolling of barrels outside, the whinny of a horse. Leaving by the front door, she headed down the formal avenue of ancient trees, dark gnarled oaks stretching up to the clouds. It took her the short distance towards the gates and the road beyond, but before it sat the little gatehouse and the tiny chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary.
It was a small, squat place with a round roof, not unlike a dovecot, which might have been its original purpose. Straddlingthe estate wall, it was used by the household and villagers alike. Since learning of its importance, Thomasin had ensured it was always well kept, swept and dusted, with candles burning, to make a welcome place for contemplation and prayer. This was also the place where she distributed alms: leftovers from their table, extra jars of jam or syrup, additional loaves of bread or pieces of cheese — anything that she could spare to help out the villagers of Green Hollow.
Taking out her key, Thomasin unlocked the door on the garden side and slipped in. Her eyes adjusted to the cool and darkness, although she saw at once that she was quite alone. Often she encountered one of the local women here, praying for their family, or a good harvest, or a cure for a troublesome ailment. It pleased her to see them using this space, finding a refuge from the cares of their lives, and sometimes they opened up to her about their woes. A fresh bunch of wildflowers on the ground before the altar suggested that Thomasin was not the first person to visit that morning.
She knelt beside the blooms on the stone floor and closed her eyes. Uncle Matthew was gone now. Giles and her father had tried to put on a brave face, and be positive, but the grief still cut deep. Thomasin needed a quiet space to sift through her memories of him and give thanks for his life. He had lived a good life, but not without loss and sorrow. He’d always offered kindness and assistance whenever he could. No doubt there would be something set aside in his will for a memorial in his London church, alongside that which already stood for his wife and son.
Thomasin thought back to the time Matthew had welcomed her to Monk’s Place, one autumn evening six years earlier. The Marwoods had driven from Suffolk to the city ahead of Cecilia’s planned marriage to some worthy gentleman whose name Thomasin now could not remember. The wedding had not takenplace, of course, because she had met William Hatton and her life had begun to unravel instead. Thomasin had been seventeen, new to the ways of London and the court, quite an innocent to the ways of men, and the sad cruelties one person might inflict upon another. Innocent, too, to the ways of the human heart, with its strange predilections, its passions and rages. It had been in the many fine chambers at Monk’s Place, and in its beautiful gardens, that Thomasin had experienced a mixture of emotions, from the heights of passion and joy, to the depths of betrayal and fear. So many treasured memories had been made in that house: she wondered whether she would ever see it again.
As Thomasin was lost in thought, she heard the small scraping sound of the door on the village side. A shaft of bright sunlight spilled into the gloom and a girl was blinking at the change in light. When she saw Thomasin kneeling before the altar, she began to back away.
“Please don’t go.” Thomasin got to her feet. “You’re welcome here, truly. I’m about to leave.”
