Frankie soon left but I sat a while, cradling the empty glass. I watched the colors reflect on my skirt; little dark splotches that moved over the fabric as the moth shadows had over Arthur’s face.

“It’s late,” said a harassed old Maggie when I arrived home. She took my outer clothes as the younger children rushed up, shouting “Mama!” Weston handed out their marchpane pigs and I picked up Mary, who was coughing. “Let me sit awhile,” I said.

“There is no time,” said old Maggie, “the Countess is here.” She nodded toward the door to the parlor. How had Frankie come so quickly? Had she changed her mind? Was Robert Carr already with her? Above the sounds from the street I could hear high heels walking across the bare planks. Peeling plaster, cold ash, it would be worse than Frankie could ever have imagined. As if the visitor listened equally hard, the footsteps ceased.

As I entered the chamber, I faltered. It was not Frankie but her mother. She stood in the center of the room, as if keeping her distance from the four walls, for fear their shabbiness would infect her. Although she was in mourning, her hair was very high as were her heels.

I curtsied deeply.

“Rise, Mistress Turner. As you are close to my daughter, I presume that you are aware of her contempt, her utter contempt, for her husband and for her family who chose him? She was happy enough to marry at the time, but has made no effort to gain his love since. And now word comes to my ears that she loves another, is this true?” Staggered by the directness of this address, although the same trait often surfaced in Frankie, I struggled for a politic reply.

“Your daughter is a woman of exceptional beauty and nobility. She is courted by many but she never forgets her marriage vows,” I said. The Countess waved a hand as if batting away my words.

“Do not speak archly to me, Mistress Turner, for I am well versed in mealymouthed evasions. Is my daughter in love with Robert Carr?”

“Madam, do you wish your daughter such poor friends as would lay bare her soul?”

“I am her mother and the wife of the Lord Chancellor and you will answer me directly.” Her eyelids were red. Perhaps, as Frankie had said, the Countess was grieving her lover Salisbury, whose death spelled change almost as great as if the King had died. To anger her would be folly; she was as spiteful as she was influential. I was amazed that Frankie had emerged from the womb of this woman. Their only common features were obstinacy and beauty.

“I believe that Robert Carr is enamored of your daughter, perhaps to please the King whose love for your family is well known, but your daughter behaves with propriety.”