“And nor would I be back, but the King demanded we attend Lord Salisbury’s funeral, at Robin’s suggestion,” she said. Frankie seemed agitated and glanced around as if expecting an unwanted guest. “If we sat here two days I could not tell you all that is occurring at Court,” she continued, speaking quickly and picking at the lace on her handkerchief. “Lord Salisbury’s death works like a holy sacrifice to raise the body of the Court from an obscure tomb. Men I have not clept eyes on my entire life stream from the shires to get a bite of the spoils, the hay still in their hair.”

She drained the glass and released my hands. Standing, she moved between bolts of fabric, lifting the materials and observing the way they fell. I noted what she touched; translucent stuffs mainly. “The Scots are all there, snatching what they can,” she continued. “The privy councillors squabble over Salisbury’s monopolies, expecting to be granted what he had. The place is far more exciting than usual.”

“Your family must be sad,” I said, “to lose a great ally.”

“God, no, all of us loathed him except my mother. He spied on us. My great-uncle was always plotting to be appointed Secretary of State in his place. Now he might succeed. My lady mother pushes Father forward and grumbles that Northampton is trying to profit at their expense. She cries a lot. She must have loved Salisbury in her way. The King wishes Robin to mediate between the Howard and the Essex camps, which he endeavors to do, but the task is impossible.”

“No man has been as hardly treated in death as Salisbury. Have you seen the libels and broadsheets against him?” I asked, ill at ease before Frankie’s nervousness.

“He cannot read them now. A cancer of the stomach. I believe he suffered greatly,” she said, with no trace of sympathy.

“Have Forman’s measures continued sufficient?”

“I leave my chamber only to dine, and that in order to give my husband the concoction. I have made resolutions during this exile, without Forman’s help, or even yours,” she said, running her fingers over the different textures of cloth. “Will you make me a dress? Only three people will see it but it has to be the most beautiful you ever fashioned.” I made clothes only for masques, for my children and, in recent times, for myself. Frankie knew that this was a point of honor for me.

“You and I being two, and the third is not your husband?”

“No,” agreed Frankie. “I think he will soon die of an excess of bile.”

“Simon Forman would have warned you of it. Predictions of death were his speciality.”

“A simple gown,” said Frankie.

“What beneath?”

“Nothing. Closed with a single lace.”

I must have raised an eyebrow.

“Reserve that look for your children,” said Frankie, “I know what I am doing.”