Chapter 3
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.
Straddling the 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 taken place, 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.”
The girl dipped her head in a small curtsey.
Thomasin recognised her as belonging to one of the large families in the village, perhaps one of the many daughters of the miller.
She was about sixteen, with hair so dark it was almost black, hanging down her back in a long plait.
Several strands had escaped and her cheeks were rosy, as if she had been running.
Her eyes were dark to match and she had a downward turn to her mouth that might have been sullen or fearful.
Her kirtle and gown were clean, at least, Thomasin noted.
Thomasin got to her feet. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Mariot.”
And your family name?
“Gull.”
Not the miller’s child then, but the carpenter’s.
“You know I am Lady Waterton,” said Thomasin, “and I own this chapel. My house lies beyond. I am always glad to see people from the village using it.”
The girl remained silent.
“Have you brought anything?”
She stuck out two empty hands in answer.
“Ah. I wondered if you had left these flowers. They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
The dark head made a small movement which might have been a nod.
“So are you here to pray? To remember someone? In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”
Thomasin turned to go back to the house, but the girl suddenly spoke.
“I came to ask for guidance.”
“For guidance? Something is troubling you?”
Mariot was fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, picking at the stitches.
“You can tell me.”
The girl looked sideways at her. “I don’t want to marry him.”
“Marry who?”
“My father says I must marry Jeremy Gates, but I don’t want to. I don’t like him.”
“Ah, I see. And who is Jeremy Gates?”
“The butcher’s son. He has piggy eyes and a limp. He’s ten years older than me.”
“Why does your father say you must marry him?”
“Because all his brothers died, so he’s the last one left. He’ll take over the business.”
“Do you know him at all? Have you spoken with him?”
“A little. But all he speaks of is himself. And he looks at me like one of the pig’s carcasses.”
Mariot tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She certainly was a pretty girl and would have had no trouble finding herself another husband without help.
“What does your mother say?”
“Dead, my lady.”
Thomasin nodded. She should have known this, as lady of the manor. “Is there someone else you know who you’d rather marry?”
The girl shook her head violently. “I don’t want to be married at all. At least not yet. I don’t like the idea of it.”
“I understand. Can you speak to your father about it? Will he listen to you?”
She shrugged.
“If you go to him respectfully and explain yourself, perhaps he will reconsider. Could you do that?”
“I will try.”
“And you came here to pray for guidance?”
Mariot nodded.
“Very well, I will leave you to your prayers. Speak with your father when you get home. Explain your dislike and I hope he will listen. God bless you, Mariot Gull.”
Later that day, when Thomasin took alms down to the chapel after their midday meal, she found the place empty.
On the wooden table she laid out the bread, a cold pie, some nuts, cheeses and a few leftover cuts of lamb from her and Giles’s table.
She often instructed the kitchens to prepare too much, as if they were expecting guests, in order to ensure there was enough to pass on.
It always went. The village children were usually sent down by their mothers, as they were the fastest runners, hanging back until Thomasin had left, then surging forward to fill their aprons and baskets.
As she turned to leave, she noticed a tiny change in the place: a little grey stone had been left in the middle of the altar, quite deliberately.
Some local hand had placed it there. Leaning over to have a closer look, Thomasin saw that it was roughly in the shape of a heart, and had no doubt that Mariot had left it behind, as part of her prayers to avoid the distasteful marriage.
She smiled and left the stone in position, heading back towards the house.
Lettice was sitting in the oriel window, embroidering a collar with Spanish work.
It was a skill Thomasin had taught her, which she had learned in turn at the court of Catherine of Aragon.
Even up to the papal trial four years earlier, Catherine had insisted on sewing all her husband’s shirts by hand, until Anne Boleyn had stepped in and put a stop to it.
It was a useful skill, though, and Thomasin’s own work was visible in the collars and cuffs of Giles’s shirts.
Like Thomasin, Lettice had gone into mourning, and the long black skirts arranged around her felt at odds with the bright spring sunshine. She looked up as Thomasin approached.
“There you are! Look, I think I’ve invented a brand-new stitch!”
She held up her fabric, where Thomasin recognised a familiar pattern.
“Well done, that’s coming along nicely.”
“I’d like to finish this for Father before I go home.”
“Are you thinking of returning to Eastwell?” Thomasin had enjoyed having her younger sister for company.
“Not at all, but I shall probably be expected now, to help Mother with things.”
“Well, she has servants for that.”
“You know what I mean. Emotional things.”
Lady Elizabeth had always needed a lot of support when it came to alleviating her sorrows.
In that way, she and her husband were opposites: while she was vocal and, if Thomasin had to admit it, fairly dramatic, Sir Richard was quite the stoic.
Their elder sister was of no help either, taking after their mother in that aspect of her character.
Thomasin sat on the curve of the window seat opposite, conscious of the bright colours on the other side of the glass. “You enjoy being here, though, don’t you?”
“Ever so much!”
“Then let’s have no talk of returning home. You’re very helpful to me, and we are not so far away if Mother wants to visit. Now, I was thinking of riding into Dedham tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?”
“Definitely. Will the market be on?”
“It should be. So, yes, that stall selling liquorice might be there.”
Lettice’s eyes widened. “And the one selling ribbons. And we might visit the baker’s for saffron tarts.”
“I suppose we might.”
But her sister’s face rapidly changed. “I shouldn’t feel so excited about going. I had forgotten for a moment about Uncle Matthew.”
“Come now, it is no dishonour to Uncle if you enjoy a few small treats. He would want you to do so. He was a kind man, and such things help us get through difficult times.”
“So we shall go?”
“Yes, straight after breakfast.”
“You’re sure…” Lettice began, hesitantly, “you’re sure we won’t be punished in some way? Struck down on the ride back, or afflicted with some terrible disease?”
Thomasin sighed. “That is not how God works, sister. You must forget this idea of a vengeful, punishing God and think of him more like a father. Of course he will not punish us for continuing to live. It was his will that Uncle Matthew go to him, and his will that we remain here on earth, with all the bounty he has provided. We are not nuns or servants; we have our own will and make our choices with respect and love for him and our uncle.”
“That’s very comforting,” said Lettice, smiling. “But look, I have dropped my stitch. Will you please thread the needle again for me? I do not have the patience.”
“Of course. It’s not so hard when you’ve practised.”
Thomasin took the needle and thread, sucked the end, squinted and passed it back through the tiny hole on the first attempt.
“You know,” said Lettice, jumping up instead of taking it back, “I’m tired of sitting still. My legs are restless. Why don’t we go and check on the violet cordial for Ellen?”
Thomasin secured the needle in the collar with a smile. “Yes, let’s go and do that.”