“To truck with them would be dangerous and futile. The first is a charlatan and extortionist, the second an ignorant cunning woman.” It was from the likes of Savery and Woods that I sought to shield Frankie; there were many quacks about, some harmless, some villainous. I had encountered one particularly vile creature in a backstreet apothecary, lopsided from venereal disease that corrupted the marrow of his bones and dressed in clothes of the wrong size, in colors never normally seen together. He talked to me with unearnt familiarity until Weston hushed him; the creature’s name was Franklin.

This unpleasant recollection was interrupted by Frankie’s steward announcing Mr. Palmer. He entered, sweating in a felted and flowered cape that looked as if he might have made it himself, a rolled parchment in his hand. He gave us both an exquisite bow and kissed our hands, mine at some length. We had spent many hours with him over the summer. He thought women capable of wisdom to rival, or even outshine, that of men and for that alone I admired him.

“I hope nothing ails you?” he asked Frankie.

“Not at all, just a little rebalancing of the humors,” she said.

“Forgive my tardiness, but I have moved home. I am now your near neighbor, my lady,” he said, bowing again to Frankie. “The Viscount Rochester has found me lodgings near the tennis court so that I might more closely oversee his growing collection.”

This pleased me greatly; our meetings would be more frequent.

“He has asked that I find you a painting to celebrate your recent birthday and I have come to inquire whether it should be Dutch or Italian?” Mr. Palmer had been continuing Frankie’s education in painting and statuary, begun in the Long Gallery of Northampton House. Robert Carr often joined the lessons, as did I. Mr. Palmer had a gentle curiosity that worked like sunlight on me; he asked questions and, beguilingly, listened to the answers. How rare is the man who does that. Perhaps it was a sign of my advancing years that I found such kindness attractive.

“Dutch. There is enough bare flesh in here now. Are you writing as well as painting?” said Frankie, pointing to the scroll in his hand.

“This is Sir Thomas Overbury’s work,” he replied, perhaps thinking to impress us with the acquaintance. Overbury never came to Frankie’s apartments with Carr, so Mr. Palmer could not know how much we disliked him. “He writes rhyming sketches about milkmaids, lawyers and such, and this one has proved popular. Shall I read it to you?”

We both shook our heads and Mr. Palmer laughed so hard tears fell from the corners of his eyes. “I have yet to meet someone who likes the man,” he said, once he had recovered himself. He tucked the scroll away and began to discuss Dutch artists when Frankie interrupted.