“Yes, Lady Margaret.”

“Let me look at you, child! If you stare at the floor you can’t expect me to grovel to see your face. Chin up! Higher! And look at me. I’m not so old and ugly that you’ll turn to stone.”

The clipped, authoritative voice matched the woman Campion now saw in front of her. Margaret was tall, with an aquiline nose, and blue eyes that looked on the world with an expression of inquisitive challenge. Toby had inherited his mother’s firm line of jaw and mouth, and taken from her too, a tall, upright body. She was, indeed, far from old and ugly. Campion knew that Lady Margaret lacked two years of fifty, yet, apart from the full, gray hair, she could have been ten years younger.

“Take off the cloak, child. Let me see you.”

Campion felt shabby. Lady Margaret was dressed in a gown of pale yellow, embroidered with gillyflowers. There were strange specks of paint on the bodice, paint that was also on the right hand which raised Campion’s chin higher. “Take the bonnet off, child.” Mrs. Swan had brought Campion’s clothes with her, including her last, black, Puritan bonnet.

“You’re not ugly, are you, child? I can see why Toby went to such inordinate lengths for you. He said that killing a man was unpleasant. Did you find it unpleasant?”

Campion nodded. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

“I’m not sure I would find it unpleasant. Turn round.”

Campion obeyed.

“All the way round, child, I don’t want to talk to your back.” Campion faced Lady Margaret again, who sniffed. “I see the Slythes did raise a rose among their unprepossessing thorns. Did you think my son was justified in his slaughter and destruction on your behalf?”

Campion swallowed and thought quickly. “I would have done it for him, Lady Margaret.”

To Campion’s surprise, Lady Margaret laughed. “He can be precipitate, Toby. I don’t understand where his enthusiasms come from. Certainly not from us. I don’t understand, either, where his red hair came from. It’s tasteless. I assume it was because he was conceived at the full moon. I made a note of it in my journal. George kept his boots on.” This was all said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if Lady Margaret was talking of everyday household things. She went on in the same manner. “Are you a virgin, child?”

Campion gaped, then recovered herself. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re twenty?”

Campion nodded. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

“You’re certainly clinging to it for a long time. I suppose those are the clothes your family provided?”

“Yes, Lady Margaret.”

“Quite horrible. I met your father once in Shaftesbury. He was a disagreeable man. I remember he had scurf on his shoulders. I asked him if it had been snowing.” She elaborated no further, but turned to a small table, covered with her work, and picked up a letter. She read it aloud. “‘The girl is, bye Tobie’s owne Account, quite Unlettered except in the Scriptures.’ Is that true?”