Chapter 8
EIGHT
Thomasin climbed reluctantly out of the carriage and smoothed down the skirts of her black dress with the tawny sleeves.
She was glad she’d brought it in the end, having only packed for a week, as it was the only thing in her trunk that befitted a visit to the new queen’s mother.
Yet she would rather be any place than here.
Durham Place was built in the same vein as Monk’s Place, although on a much larger scale, having also sheltered a religious community in the past. It loomed up darkly with huge grey stones, and little ornamentation to soften its exterior.
Thomasin recalled Catherine of Aragon speaking of the place once, having lived there as a young widow after the death of her first husband, Prince Arthur.
How different things might have been, Thomasin had thought at the time, if that young man had lived.
She had argued against complying with Lady Elizabeth’s wishes, so much that she and Giles had almost quarrelled about it.
The last thing she wanted was to be drawn back into the circle of that family, with everything that had passed between them, not least to avoid any association with Rafe Danvers again.
Thomasin had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that they might slip in and out of London without seeing anyone, but their chance encounter with Sir Thomas had made that impossible.
Giles had understood her feelings, but explained that to ignore Lady Elizabeth’s letter would be taken as a slight upon what had become the most powerful family in the country, barring the Tudors themselves.
One visit, he’d told her, just the one, then they might dash back to Suffolk again and forget all about the Boleyns.
Lady Elizabeth had always been kind to her, Thomasin mused, as a footman showed her into the great hall.
She was the one member of the family with whom Thomasin had shared some sort of connection, after they had met at Hever Castle.
And she had always felt a little pity for George Boleyn’s wife, Lady Jane, with her struggles to conceive a child, but Sir Thomas, Anne, her sister Mary, and even George himself had proved themselves to be vain, arrogant and unpleasant.
“My dear?”
Lady Elizabeth appeared in the archway at the end of the hall.
She looked smaller than Thomasin recalled, draped in her long furs and leaning heavily on a stick.
The last time they’d met, Thomasin had been aware of her frailty and the cough that had been troubling her; there had even been the suggestion that her mind had been wandering.
“How lovely it is to see you.”
Thomasin crossed the hall to meet her hostess, whose movements were slow and laboured. She dropped a diplomatic curtsey.
“Lady Boleyn.”
“Ah, how well you look. Married and happy, I daresay. Let me look at you.” She stretched a lined hand out to take one of Thomasin’s and gave her an appreciative glance. “Any babies yet?”
Thomasin flushed.
The old woman patted her arm. “Plenty of time, but don’t wait. Come, let us sit.”
She led her guest towards the chairs that were placed in the oriel window and a servant brought wine.
“Now, you mustn’t mind me, the aches and pains have got to me now, at my age! I want to hear all about you. How have you come to be back in London again? Not bored of country life?”
“Not at all. We have come to wind up my uncle’s estates. I find that he has left me Monk’s Place, which came as a surprise.”
“A generous gift.”
“Yes,” admitted Thomasin, seeing it that way for the first time. “It is.”
“And you will live there?”
“Oh no, not permanently. We will visit from time to time and other family members will use it too.”
“A shame, a lovely house like that, so close to court. Don’t you miss court?”
There were many answers Thomasin might have given here, but she chose to be careful. “I do love the country. I feel quite at home there.”
“But it is so quiet, isn’t it? As you know, I have a great love for Hever myself, but it turns out all my family are in London, so I can either be there all alone, or here with them. You’ve heard about my Anne? Queen, she is now. Queen!”
“Yes,” said Thomasin, “I heard.”
“And poor Catherine gone, although I am not permitted to say so. I know we understand each other, Thomasin. We always did, I think.”
Thomasin drank from her wine glass to avoid answering.
“But even so, here I am, all alone. My family are always busy, you know. Preparations to make. I just get in the way.”
“Oh, I am sure that is not the case.”
“Sometimes I get Jane for company, but she is indisposed today; she’s often indisposed. I was so glad when my lord told me he had seen you back in London. I hope you don’t mind me writing to you like that, asking you to visit.”
“Of course not.”
“When you get to my age, you have to reach out for the things you want.”
“You are not so old, surely.”
“I just had my birthday. Fifty-three. It is a good age; many don’t reach it. I should be thankful to have seen all I have seen. My own daughter, queen!”
“And how is your other daughter?”
“Mary? Busy, of course. She goes everywhere with her sister, but they are sharp with each other. They quarrel too much; they should be kinder. How little they understand that life is frail and passes swiftly.”
Thomasin could not help but wonder whether Mary’s past relationship with the king played any part in the sisters’ arguments. As she remembered, both sisters had sharp tongues; it seemed time and good fortune had not softened them.
“And how is your husband?” asked her hostess. “He accompanied you from Suffolk?”
“Yes, Giles is well. He is at Monk’s Place, and my younger sister Lettice is with us too. It is her first trip to London; she is fourteen and very excited.”
“Oh, to be fourteen again. We had already sent Anne away by then — to the Netherlands, then to France. Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing. She came back quite changed, so French, so many elegant airs and ways about her. That’s what drew him, I think.” She was speaking of the king.
“And she is to have a child soon?” asked Thomasin.
“A boy, of course, so they all say. Due in September. And then it will be done. Complete. Marry the king; bear a son. That’s all I’ve heard for the past few years.”
Thomasin concealed her smile.
“Will you go to the coronation? It is ten days away. The preparations have all been made; it’s just the final touches now.”
“Oh, no, we will be back in Suffolk by then.”
“You don’t want to go?”
An awkward silence fell between them.
“It’s not so much that,” Thomasin lied. “It’s the crowds. The noise. I promised Mother I’d be back soon; she is deeply affected by her loss.”
“Of course.” The old woman eyed her shrewdly. “And you served Catherine, did you not? I feel your loyalties still lie there. Others are staying away too. I heard Thomas More will not attend, even though he was commissioned to write verses for it.”
Thomasin’s ears pricked up at her friend’s name. “More? I hope to see him soon.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath. He is no longer at court. He resigned as Lord Chancellor. He and Henry no longer talk the way they used to. He’s opposed to the marriage, of course.”
Thomasin bit her lip and resolved to wait and hear More’s side of it.
She thought back to the Legatine Court of summer 1529.
Two cardinals had sat in judgement on the king’s first marriage, with little resolution, referring the case back to Rome.
Little good that small victory had done Catherine — and Thomas Wolsey, the king’s old favourite, who was dead now.
Lady Elizabeth put her hand on Thomasin’s arm. “Sometimes it is wisest to conceal your feelings, square them with your conscience, and survive. I know the marriage is not popular, but it happened regardless and Anne will be crowned.”
“Of course.”
“I am somewhat friendless here, Thomasin, for all my connections. Mother of the queen I might be, but I have no one to tell the secrets of my heart.”
Thomasin began to twitch, sensing that this might be a good time to leave.
“And you?” The old lady’s dark eyes were watering a little. “No children yet?”
She had already asked this once; had she forgotten? Thomasin felt that familiar flush in her stomach whenever the matter was raised: part shame, part grief, part annoyance. The best answer was a short one.
“No, my lady.”
“But everything is otherwise as it should be?”
Elizabeth Boleyn looked at her pointedly.
A hundred answers sprang to Thomasin’s lips: yes, she and Giles were sleeping together regularly; no, there was no physical impediment to speak of, no health difficulty, no lack of desire for each other or for a child, no imbalanced diet, no excessive drinking or dancing or idleness, and no lack of herbs she had tried. She turned her head away.
“Oh, now I have offended you,” said her hostess, taking her hand, although Thomasin wished to snatch it away.
“I meant no harm. I meant only to help. There is no point being modest about these things, when speaking plainly can be so beneficial. I have known women in your position. You know how our dear Jane has struggled.”
Thomasin carefully extricated her hand. “I thank you. I am not in any particular position. I am sure that God has everything laid out in his plan and that my time will come.”
“An admirable sentiment. You will not remain cross with an old woman who wishes you well?”
“No,” Thomasin said, sighing. “I am not cross.”
“I wonder,” continued Elizabeth, “if I might impose upon you further. I am not entirely helpless, and there is power within my reach, although little real company and joy. I seek a companion. Someone I trust, someone I admire. Someone without such commitments is even better.”
“My lady, I…”