Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
“There is the clump of trees, like a family,” said Lettice, pointing out of the carriage window. “And when we pass around this corner, we shall see the turning to Dedham.”
They had been travelling all day, under cloudy skies, through the villages on the outskirts of London, through the red brick and pale stucco of Essex homes, jumbled together around little churches with tall spires, past swaying fields of corn and wheat, through the green plains and narrow road that drew them back into Suffolk.
Thomasin could not deny that her heart was singing at the thought of seeing Green Hollow again, with its peaceful trees and the beautiful garden, bright by day, mysterious by night, where she had always been so happy.
“I wonder what will have changed in the garden,” said Lettice, drawing her head back inside.
Giles rode alongside, but the carriage was shared between the three women.
Mariot had found the journey less arduous this time, even managing to comment on a few landmarks that sat on the horizon, telling distant stories.
On the last day at Monk’s Place, she had seemed more content, even slightly disappointed to be leaving, having finally struck up an understanding with Cook.
“We have only been gone two weeks,” said Thomasin, “barely that. Do not worry that you won’t recognise the place.”
“But is it June, sister! May and June are the growing seasons. You know that as well as I. The garden will be quite overrun, and there will be mazes of weeds and roses to contend with. They will even have started growing in through the house, or covering it over like ivy, so we shall have to hack our way inside.”
“I doubt Rogers will have let that happen.”
“Rogers will have fallen under the spell of the enchanted roses and we will find him in the parlour, wrapped in thorns.”
“Where in the world do you get these strange ideas?”
“From books, of course. Where else?”
“Where else indeed! That reminds me, I must give you that book More lent me about the constellations. It is the perfect time of year to observe Castor and Pollux in the sign of Gemini.”
“The sign of my birthday! How long is there to go?” She counted quickly. “Five days! May I stay with you until then, before I must return to Eastwell?”
“I am sure Mother is very keen to have you back by her side.”
“Oh please, Thomasin, it is my birthday, so I should get to choose!”
“Well, perhaps I can ask Father and Mother to come over for dinner on that day, and you may return with them afterwards. That way, you will both get what you want.”
“Yes! What a good idea.” She stuck her head out of the window again. “We’re coming up to that little lake with the willows around it. Only a mile now and then we are back.”
Thomasin looked across at Mariot. “Are you pleased to be returning to Suffolk?”
The girl shrugged. “I suppose it depends, my lady, whether I am returning to my father or to your house.”
Thomasin was annoyed with herself for not having settled the matter sooner.
“Of course, I should have said before. Mariot, I would like you to come and work in the kitchen at Green Hollow, with a place to sleep too. You may visit home as much as you like, by arrangement before, with a regular Sunday afternoon free. How does that suit you?”
“Thank you, my lady, that suits me very well.”
“Just so long as you keep baking as many biscuits as you can.”
“Biscuits?” asked Lettice, alerted by the word. “Are there biscuits to be had?”
“There very soon will be,” said Thomasin, smiling.
They passed the turning towards Dedham and rumbled along the last leg, with the sky spread wide and cloudless above them.
Presently the spire of the village church came into sight, being above the trees on the western boundary.
After that, it was but a short ride past the cluster of houses and across to the east, where Thomasin knew the exact moment to expect the towers of Green Hollow House to appear.
Soon, they were turning into the gates and driving up between the avenues of trees, with the familiar house standing behind in welcome.
Led by Rogers, along with Nell and Smith, the staff had appeared outside to greet them, smart in their dark clothes and clean aprons.
Thomasin stepped down from the carriage and paused to breathe in the air. Giles had already dismounted and his horse was being led to the stable.
“My lady.” He offered her his hand. “Home at last.”
“At long last,” she said happily. “What a pleasure. I hope we shall not have to leave again for a very long time.”
The hours of darkness were hanging on the horizon after their long journey, but nothing was going to stop Thomasin from walking through her treasured rooms and pushing open the back doors to her garden.
The familiar beds and lawn lay ahead, with her pattern of planting, and the sundial and stream and trees with their bats and the oaks lay on the horizon.
The scents of honeysuckle and fresh grass reached her, and to her surprise, she found herself comparing the place to the privy garden at Whitehall, and thinking how much more pleasant it was to have this one all to herself, where there was no danger of bumping into a Boleyn.
Thomasin set off slowly, following her favourite route: to the right, trailing her hand along the tops of the bushes, pausing to smell the young roses, white, yellow and pink, across the grass, under the boughs, curving round to meet the brook where a carved bench awaited her.
But today she did not pause, drifting on under the overhang of the willows, up the other side of the garden, where the beds were spread with daisies and orchids, foxgloves and cornflowers.
From that spot, her favourite vantage point, she had a view of the house with all its windows lit up.
On the first floor, she could see Lettice moving through her chamber, unpacking her London clothing; beside that room was Giles’s study, where a glimmer of light showed that the fire had been lit.
The great window showed the location of the staircase and downstairs, the hall lay beyond the closed doors, and to her left lay the kitchens and stables.
She could have walked through each of them in her mind.
Tonight she would sleep in her own bed again, in the chamber overlooking the front drive and chapel, which caught the morning sunlight.
And then the long, glorious days of summer would unfold before them, filled with peace and pleasure.
They dined simply, Thomasin, Giles and Lettice, while Mariot was being introduced to the kitchen.
As the night air stole in, Thomasin raised her wine glass and declared that this was her favourite time of day, just as she would the following morning and again at midday, and that there was no place she would rather be.
She slept solidly and rose to hear the birdsong as Giles dressed to go and check the accounts and deal with paperwork arising from his northern estates.
Thomasin rose and prepared herself, dismissing her maid as she washed and dressed.
It was a cool, fresh morning before the heat of the day arrived.
She had her whole wardrobe to choose from now, delighting in the soft fabric of the pink dress she had left behind.
Her china bowl was full of rose water, and she slipped her hands in gratefully, rubbing it up her arms and splashing her face.
She had hoped that the change of scene and excitement in London had wrought a long-hoped-for change in her, that perhaps she had finally conceived a child, as her cycle had been longer than usual.
But as she went about her toilette, she saw this was not to be and fetched the necessary rags to pad away her flowers.
Perhaps next month, she told herself, resolving not to mention it to Giles.
The day passed pleasantly. She and Lettice sat in the oriel window and caught up with the letters they had missed, and in the afternoon, they rode up to the ridge for the view and spoke with the farmers on the north side, as they sometimes did.
And thus the summer days slipped by, one after the other, some bringing warmth that opened more blooms in the garden, others bringing cool showers of rain, while some were simply mild enough to enjoy walking the dogs or picking herbs for the stillroom.
Lettice embarked on an ambitious project of candying marigolds, which produced sticky and sickly results.
When her birthday arrived, Lord Richard and Lady Elizabeth Marwood rode over to collect her, arriving in time to dine at midday, and conducting her back to Eastwell Hall by sunset.
The house felt much quieter without her.
A few weeks after her and Giles’s return, as the last days of June brought in the golden blaze of high summer, Thomasin visited the kitchens, with a wish to see how Mariot was faring.
She had only seen glimpses of the girl as she carried dishes or clean sheets between rooms, or swept the floorboards or garden paths.
Now she found her kneading dough, wearing a new green dress and a clean white cap, and singing softly to herself.
The girl looked up as Thomasin entered, falling silent and dropping a curtsey at once.
“My lady.”
“Mariot,” Thomasin said, smiling. “I had thought to come and see how you fare, but the answer is right before my eyes.”
“Yes, my lady.” She smiled and blushed.
“I see you have quite settled in and Cook is training you well.”
“Very well, I thank you. I am most happy here.”
“That is excellent. It has all worked out very well.”
“And that Eve’s pudding last night, my lady, was all my own work, with apples picked from the orchard.”
“Is that so? Giles and I remarked that it was quite the most delicious one we had ever tasted, but don’t tell Cook I said so!”
“Thank you, ma’am.”