“The world runs on wheels for many whose parents were glad to go on foot,” grumbled Richard Weston as he forced passage for me through the carts and carriages backed up the Strand. It was exceedingly warm and a strong wind whipped a rhythm of brown cloak and crimson skirt at my heels. I had expected clear passage in my bold outfit, inherited from Frankie, but I was pushed about like any goodwife. I had not told Weston of my argument with Arthur, not able to forbear any “told you so” looks. Besides, I was still quietly confident that my lover would return, even though six months had passed since our argument and two since the second anniversary of George’s passing. He still sent our stipend and I had seen him lurking in Paternoster Row on several occasions, looking toward the house. One of us would break, and it would not be me; it was not pride that stayed me, but desperation.

“You are dressed bravely today,” said Weston, rocking along on bent legs, “expect a bit of shoving.”

“For wearing red?”

He shrugged and looked down at his fingers, chafing patches of flaky skin where they joined the palm. I did not remember him shrugging so often in conversation with my husband. “There are many who want women to look like women, even in these modern times. It is only at Court they go about in hats with feathers.”

I could not stomach another sermon on that topic so held my tongue. We passed under an archway emblazoned with the coats of arms of the King and the recently deceased speculator who had developed the site, Lord Salisbury, whose arms were draped in black. Gulls gathered on the long roof, buffeted by strong gusts.

The gallery was, as always, a crush of traders, newsmongers, thieves and prostitutes, come to profit from the rich who, in turn, came to buy luxuries and compete with each other in looks, wit and rank or, failing those, in wealth. Lord Salisbury had tried to pass laws that would exclude the common and the criminal from his Pantheon of luxury, but had failed. I picked out those to avoid and those to greet as I passed along the colonnade, weaving through clouds of pipe smoke, catching snippets of conversation. I heard talk of the colonies in America and war on the Continent, of Catholic fanaticism and hopes of finding the Northwest Passage; of who would marry Prince Henry and Princess Elizabeth, and who invest in the East India Company.

I bought from the sweetmeat seller plump marchpane pigs with clove eyes for my youngest children. I could picture Katherine kissing the nose of her pig before nibbling delicately, hoping not to hurt its feelings. Henry would stuff his in his mouth at once and Mary would share hers with me. I handed the pigs to Weston, who smiled for the first time that day.