Chapter 29
The October skies hung white and mottled above the twisted chimneys of Eastwell Hall.
Luckily the day was dry, with a chance of sunshine, so there was no need to alter the carefully laid plans that Lady Elizabeth had been so proud of.
The grounds were looking splendid, having been raked clear of leaves.
All the bushes had been trimmed, the grass flattened under huge rollers, and the late-blooming autumn roses were putting on a heartwarming display of pink and yellow.
The last vestiges of summer still clung about the place, reluctant to give way to the harsh winter months ahead.
The joint wedding had been delayed long enough for Cecilia to recover from her ordeal.
Six weeks before, she had delivered her daughter in the old blue chamber at Eastwell, with heavy curtains hanging across the windows and the fire built up to a suffocating warmth.
Lady Elizabeth, Thomasin, and her eldest sibling Lettice had spent hours with her, waiting, praying, reading, sewing and playing games to while away the hours until the child put in its appearance.
They had been fortunate to have the assistance of Margery Gaines from the village, a well-known midwife who had assisted in the delivery of the Marwoods’ two younger children, Alice and Susanna.
When the pains had started to take hold one evening, a carriage had brought the sage old woman up to the Hall, and the baby had been delivered at dawn.
It had been a difficult labour, progressing slowly, with Cecilia’s spirits flagging as she slipped in and out of consciousness.
Still, a tiny girl had arrived, red-faced and angry, balling up her little fists.
She had a shock of fair hair, white-blond like her father’s, and her mother’s clear, glassy eyes.
She was christened two days later in the local church, carried to the stone font by Sir Richard, and given the name Rose.
Cecilia had recovered slowly, experiencing a little fever and a lot of restlessness, which were treated with herbs and remedies that her mother made.
She emerged from the blue chamber three weeks later, refusing to remain there a moment longer, heading to her churching with the determined face Thomasin recognised from their childhood.
However, as the days passed, it was clear that this was a different Cecilia.
She was quiet, more reflective, with a fierce love for her little daughter.
Thomasin stood looking out of the window across the back lawns.
This room had been hers as a girl, and her favourite locations spread out before her: the nut walk, the rose garden, the fishpond with its central statue.
Perhaps this was the last day she would stand here, like this, the last morning she would wake up at Eastwell, definitely her last day as a Marwood.
She looked down at the dress that had been specially made in London for her: the gown of pale violet, worn over a white kirtle shot through with silver.
Her headdress lay on the bed, ready to be pinned into position at the last moment: a confection of pearls and tiny diamonds with a long white veil, thin and gauzy.
About her throat, she was wearing the Marwood diamonds, a string of priceless stones that her own mother had worn on her wedding day more than twenty years earlier, along with matching heavy earrings and a sparkling ring.
There came a knock upon the door. Sir Richard Marwood entered, dressed in his new coat of tawny and gold, another masterpiece from the same tailor. He beamed with pride as he took in his daughter’s appearance.
“Well, I had never thought to see this day come.”
“Never, Father?”
“I feared I would not live to see it. But God, in his wisdom, has spared me for this moment. The proudest moment of my life.”
Thomasin felt tears well in her eyes at once. “Oh stop, do stop, or else you will be walking a weeping bride down the aisle.”
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I will ever be. Is it time?”
“Not quite yet. We still have a half hour, but there are guests downstairs I think you would wish to see.”
“Guests? Here?”
“They stopped ahead of the church to speak with you in person. Will you come down?”
Thomasin picked up her skirts and hurried after her father, wondering who might be waiting downstairs in her childhood home.
As she rounded the top of the staircase, the group waiting at the bottom ceased their chatter and looked up at her.
Her mother was in the centre, dressed in a tawny gown to match Sir Richard’s, while Cecilia had opted for a pale watered green.
Their little brother Digby stood smartly in front, now a lively, sharp boy of thirteen.
Seven-year-old Alice and her younger sister, Susanna, almost four, were waiting with armfuls of flowers.
To their right, Thomasin was delighted to see a familiar group waiting.
Her dear friend Thomas More, back from Cambrai, had travelled up to Suffolk for the occasion.
With him was his daughter Margaret, Thomasin’s great friend, and her husband, the stoic William Roper.
Also of the party were John and Jane Dudley, her bodice loose to accommodate her advancing pregnancy.
The sight of them almost took Thomasin’s breath away, and she paused at the top of the steps to fix this moment in her mind forever.
Her friends below applauded at the sight of her, their dear, beloved Thomasin, soon to be heading to the church.
“Do not keep your admirers waiting,” said her father gently.
Thomasin descended slowly, going first to her mother’s arms. Lady Elizabeth smelled of rosewater and citrus, the softness of her silk sleeves wrapping about her daughter’s waist.
“You are beautiful. Such a picture, Thomasin. I knew that gown was the perfect one.”
“You do look well,” added Cecilia, who was keeping one ear out for the baby with her nurse. “I wish you every happiness, as you deserve. We have not always been close, but I hope that will change.”
“I am sure it will,” Thomasin replied, smiling. “And I also hope that one day you will be as happy as I am. You deserve that, too.”
“Thomasin!” More came forward to kiss her cheek. “We had to come and see you for the last time as a Marwood. Forgive us the intrusion, but it comes with our love and best wishes.”
“You are so very welcome,” said Thomasin, looking at the More and Dudley group. “I am so happy that you have come, for it is a distance from London.”
“Not so far as Cambrai, although that matter is all sorted now.”
“We would not have missed this for the world,” said Margaret, hugging her friend. “Although Father has other news he will not raise, because this is your day. But the king has appointed him Lord Chancellor, as Wolsey’s replacement. And Wolsey is charged with…”
More raised his hand to silence her. Thomasin looked at him in wonder at this news, but read a mixture of emotions on his face. “We will not discuss this matter now,” he said. “This is a day for festivities. Let no clouds dim its brilliance.”
Thomasin smiled, grateful for his kindness, although she could not help wondering about Wolsey’s fate.
“Welcome, Will,” she said to Margaret’s husband. “John, Jane, thank you for coming. I hope your journey was not too arduous.”
“We stopped overnight at Hatfield and Hedingham,” Jane told her, “so it was quite endurable. This is a beautiful part of the country and I am inclined to visit more often.”
“Here!” said little Susanna, rushing up to her sister with armfuls of late roses. “Here is your bouquet. You must take it now before it prickles me!”
There was laughter all round at this.
“Now,” said Lady Elizabeth, “we must away to the church. Allow a short while before you follow. The time has come.”
“Is Ellen there already?” asked Thomasin.
“She went ahead, with Sir Henry’s sister. She will be wondering where we all are!”
St Luke’s Church sat a little beyond the Marwood land, surrounded by fields of sheep.
Around lay a tumble of gravestones, weathered by the ages, bearing the names of those who had lived and died in this landscape long before them.
Thomasin knew well the impressive stone box tombs in the south shadow of the tower, where the name of Marwood was carved with pride by the junior members of her family, although her grandparents and their parents had been buried inside, under the choir.
As she alighted outside, with her father at her side, Thomasin saw that the porch had been decorated with flowers, hanging low to shower her with their rich blooms. Her heart raced as she realised that all the people she loved best in the world were gathered under that roof.
“Thomasin?”
Ellen came forward into the light, her apricot gown a perfect contrast to Thomasin’s violet, her brown eyes sparkling as much as the diamonds at her throat. She looked the happiest her cousin had ever seen her.
“Ellen, you look the picture of a perfect bride.”
“As do you, Thomasin. That soft violet is the perfect colour for you, restrained but warm.”
“Thank you. It took an age to choose and I rejected a green one, a white one, and a grey.”
“And the gold thread, and the cream,” added her father. “At one point, I feared that she would be walking down the aisle in her old shift! Which would, of course, have been much easier on my purse.”
“I cannot believe this day has come,” said Thomasin, taking her cousin’s hands.
In many ways, Ellen had been the sister she had always wanted, close in temperament, gentle, kind and forgiving, but fiercely loyal.
Since their earliest days at court, the pair had supported each other through the trials of the royal marriage, through heartbreak and sorrow, and were now to be united in happiness.
“It feels like we have been waiting a long time for it,” said Ellen. “But I do not think there are two women who are more ready for it than you and I. Not now that we have the right men waiting for us at the end.”
“I can honestly say,” said Thomasin, “that I do not regret any of it. All the difficult times, all the heartbreak we have endured has brought us here, today, side by side, to embark upon this future together.”
“You with Sir Giles.”
“And you with Sir Henry.”
“How lucky they both are!” added Sir Richard. “I hope they know it.”
“Oh yes,” Ellen laughed, “I am sure they do. And one last thing! I almost forgot.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small package, wrapped in cloth. “Before we left, Queen Catherine gave me these, to open on the morning of our wedding.”
Unwrapping the layers, she revealed two small heart-shaped brooches, one ruby and one sapphire, set in gold. She held them up for Thomasin to see.
“Which would you prefer?”
“Oh, the sapphire must be yours. It is your colour.”
“And the ruby is yours. I wonder if the queen chose them that way.”
Thomasin pinned the brooch to her chest, where the red sat rich and warm against the white panel of her bodice. Likewise, Ellen pinned hers close to her heart.
“Reminders of the queen, our generous mistress, as if she were here with us.”
Above them, the church bells began to peal. The long, sonorous notes drowned out their voices.
“Come,” said Sir Richard, offering each of them an arm. “It is time. No going back now. No doubts, Ellen?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Thomasin?”
“None whatsoever.”
Thomasin looped her arm through his right, while Ellen linked up on the left. Slowly, they turned towards the darkness of the church interior, where more flowers brightened the gloom and the scent of cool stone surrounded them.
“Let’s go and get married,” said Thomasin.
Inside, the church was full. More guests had travelled up from London, while local families who had known the Marwoods for generations filled the pews.
Everyone rose at the sight of the two brides, but Thomasin’s eyes were fixed firmly on the altar ahead.
Candles burned brightly and the stained glass depiction of the virgin and child filtered gentle light down upon them.
It seemed to take forever to walk slowly towards them.
Thomasin saw Sir Henry Letchmere first, standing on the left-hand side of the priest, a little nervous in his blue coat as he came forward to take Ellen’s hand.
And then, while she was searching for him, Giles appeared, his eyes dancing, his smile welcoming and broad.
Her heart leapt at the sight of him, knowing she had never been as perfectly happy as she was at that moment.
“You look so beautiful,” he whispered, as she took her place beside him.
The bells overhead stopped their pealing as the priest began to speak the first words of the ceremony. By the time those ancient bells sounded again, they had been pronounced man and wife.
Above the church, a flock of birds circled the spire on their way towards the nearby oak tree, drawn by the activity below.
The white clouds briefly parted and bathed the tower in golden light, picking out the colours of the flowers on the porch.
To the left and right, green fields rolled away, and light reflected off the surface of ponds and rivers.
It penetrated the denseness of the woods, picking out a hare in the middle of a clearing and the flash of a fox’s tail.
Beyond that lay the distant red and greyness of a town, then a large estate, a group of horses grazing, a team of men digging the brown earth, and even further still, a few miles to the east, lay the wide, clean expanse of the sea.