“It’s just … this world is so different. I’ve finally adjusted. I don’t know about going home and seeing him, and becoming the daughter again, even for an afternoon.”
“I do understand. You can be your own person here. But do remember all that your father has done for you throughout your life, and the love he has for you. It is your choice, Mariot. If you do not go this Sunday, it does not mean you will never go. There will be other Sundays.”
“Thank you for being such a kind mistress to me, my lady.”
Thomasin smiled. “I am glad things have worked out so well for us both. We certainly benefit in this house from your presence.”
“I am preparing a special summer pudding for the feast of St John the Baptist.”
“We shall look forward to it. We usually have a small bonfire that night, as custom demands, and I hope you will join us for it, as we usually have the whole household outside on that occasion.”
“Indeed I will, my lady, with pleasure.”
The bonfire passed and the month of July arrived with a few sharp showers. The stream in the garden flooded its banks and Thomasin supervised her gardeners in the operation to clean it up and save the nearby drenched plants. Around Green Hollow, the fields were full to bursting and the men in the village were called in with their scythes to cut down the wheat and barley. In the kitchen garden, an abundance of strawberries appeared and were used in tarts, syllabubs and syrups. Thomasin also rode out to Dedham market as she had planned, although without Lettice, and paid a visit to Mother Lacey, who lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village. She returned with a bag of new herbs to be chopped and boiled into a drink, and some to be rubbed over her belly and strewn across her bed, which Thomasin did diligently, adding her fervent prayers in the chapel. Yet there was no child again that month.
In the later days of July, as the swallows and swifts looped their path overhead, a messenger brought a letter to Green Hollow. Mariot brought it out into the garden, where Thomasin was snipping the heads off the dead roses with a pair of little shears. She put down her tool, recognising the seal at once.
Catherine of Aragon had written a few lines from her current residence at Buckden Towers. Her hand looked shaky, although she still went to some effort to make the writing elegant and neat.
My dearest Lady Waterson,
I cannot tell you again how much pleasure it gives me to write to you under that name, knowing from your last letter how happy you are in your marriage. I am presently still at Buckden, although there is some talk of moving me again, which prospect I relish not. My health is not what it used to be,but with God’s continual grace, I remain his servant upon this earth. I pray daily for the king’s good health and the return of his affections for me. Your letters cheer me much. Forgive me for writing less often than I would wish. I often reminisce with Maria about happier days, and think of you with great fondness. My very best wishes for your continuing happiness and good health. God bless you, Thomasin.
Your friend, Catherine
Thomasin wiped away a tear. At court, it had been said that the lady was no longer permitted to refer to herself as queen, but only by her former title, Dowager Princess of Wales. Here, Catherine had neatly circumvented the problem with her simple warmth and dignity. It made Thomasin realise again how much she missed her former mistress and queen, and reminded her to add Catherine to her prayers that night, and every night. At least she had her good friend Maria Willoughby at her side, which was some little comfort.
It was a week into August when Thomasin was walking from the chapel along the tree-lined avenue that led up to the house. The day was surprisingly cool and the air was fresh with rain that had fallen overnight. She had reached the front steps of the house when she heard the sound of a horseman on the road, and turned to see a man entering their gates while two others waited outside. He spurred his horse on, into the grounds of Green Hollow, straight in her direction, his purpose unknown. Thomasin wondered at his approach, knowing that Giles was out in the field with his falcons, not close but within reach. The visitor was clearly a man of status, she could see as he drew clearer, with his horse draped in matching black velvet and touches of gold glinting in the daylight.
And then she recognised him. Shock and dread seized her at the sight of his face, because the arrival of Sir Thomas Boleyn in Suffolk could not be good news for her.
Thomasin curtseyed as he dismounted, her mind reeling with questions.
“My lady,” he said, advancing up the steps towards her. “Forgive this intrusion. I was travelling back from my estate in Norfolk and passed this way.”
“You are welcome,” she replied, conscious of the respect due to his position. “Come inside and take some refreshment. Send your men round to the kitchen for the same.”
“You are most gracious.”
A servant came round to take the horse and Thomasin led him inside.
“This is a very pleasant estate you have,” he said, looking around the entrance hall. “Well situated, quiet and spacious. The house is very well appointed.”
“Yes,” she replied, “we are happy here. My lord will be here shortly.”
She knew that word would spread from the stables to the kitchens and one of the boys would run over to fetch Giles. Pausing at the oriel window, she indicated the seats.
“Will you be seated?”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I have been in the saddle for hours, so I would rather stretch my legs. Would you be inclined to show me the garden you spoke of so proudly at Whitehall?”
“Of course. Please, follow me.”
She led him outside onto the steps, where the garden stretched away from them. Sir Thomas stopped and breathed in.
“Ah, now this was worth the ride alone.”
“Shall we?” Thomasin waved her hand in the direction of the rose walk.
