Her hair was long and golden, a pale gold like wheat two weeks before the harvest, and her mother had made her scrape it severely back and then coil the tresses in a tight bun that could be hidden by a Puritan bonnet. Once a month at Werlatton, Campion and the maids would sit in the kitchen and Goodwife would shear the ends of their hair, chopping one straight line with long scissors, and that was the extent of Campion’s knowledge of hair. Caroline Lazender, Toby’s younger sister and the third of Lady Margaret’s seven children to survive infancy, repaired the damage. Caroline herself had long, dark hair, and Campion had the impression that the sixteen-year-old could happily spend half of eternity doing nothing but curling and decorating it. Caroline was delighted to have another head to play with. “It’s got to be ringlets.”

“Ringlets?” Campion sounded dubious. Caroline had appeared with a tray heaped with scissors, tongs, strange implements that had to be heated, and a pile of pale blue ribbons.

“Everyone’s in ringlets. Absolutely everyone.” The words were said with finality. Ringlets it would be.

So ringlets she had, and for a few days Campion would catch an unexpected glimpse of herself in a mirror or darkened window, and she would stop in amazement at her own reflection. Instead of the demure, modest Puritan, dressed to cover the shame of woman’s sin, she saw a creature of golden softness, bare shouldered, long necked, her skin just tickled by the long curls that hung from the silver fillet in her hair. The seal hung at her breasts, and on her fingers were rings lent by Lady Margaret. Sir George, on the first night that she appeared in all her finery, pretended surprise and asked to be introduced. She laughed, curtseyed and wished that Toby could see her.

She spent her days with Lady Margaret, sharing her energy and enthusiasms, and each evening before dinner she read aloud to her patroness. She had a good voice and read well, though at first she was sometimes shocked by the things Lady Margaret wished to hear. She was introduced to books she had never heard of, could never have imagined had been written, nor did she suspect that Lady Margaret was choosing the books deliberately. Lady Margaret was especially fond of poetry and, one night, Campion stopped reading and blushed. Lady Margaret frowned.

“What on earth is the matter, child?”

“It’s rude.”

“Sweet Lord above! Jack Donne was in holy orders, the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral. We knew him well when we were young.” Lady Margaret forebore to mention that John Donne, when young and before he became a priest, had been a rare and boisterous companion.

“Is he dead?”

“Alas, yes. Read on!”

Campion read, despite her embarrassment:

License my roving hands, and let them go

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! My new found land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned…

She blushed again when she reached the final couplet: