I was about to wave away her thanks, as I tended to do, but her gratitude brought me such fear that I could not. If there had been a middle way, a safer path, I would have taken it; but without Arthur, I had only the choice of living boldly or barely surviving. He had stopped our stipend and requested of Baron Ellesmere that John and Barbara leave the household so as not to see them more; that was a fearful day. I kept hold of my mind, but my skin broke out again in itchy red patches. Frankie found John a position at her parents’ palace at Audley End, but Oxford was out of his reach. Barbara was home until I could find her another position. Thomas came to tell me that he could not lend me money. I did not doubt his lack of cash; he spent all he had chasing around town, buying clothes and girls beyond his means, much as George and I knew he would.

Prices were rising, and for the first time I was truly afeared of how I was to feed and keep us warm. Everything that could be sold had been, except for George’s chair; we ate the cheapest food, lit no fires even on wet days and no longer took wherries, as resoling my boots was slightly cheaper. I had to search the muddy grass and sparse bushes of Lincoln’s Inn and Moorfields for ingredients for Mary’s syrup. George’s cat had to catch her own food and every other day I did not eat. Eustace, my younger brother, paid some of my rent, which staved off eviction. Even marrying Weston would not help us for long; he was an old man with a son of his own to leave his property to when he died. As the widow of a doctor I had some slight respectability that might allow me to find clients among the middling sort, those who knew nothing of Arthur. Loyal and caring though Weston was toward us, he was a rough man, paid to collect debts because others feared or owed him. As his wife, I would lose the little respect I still commanded and Frankie would be forbidden friendship with so low a person as I would then be. My worries sometimes gave me pains in the head that made my words come out backward. My life as a widow careened on turbulent waters; I felt very keenly how rocky was the bottom, how flimsy the boat, and how very nimbly and hard I must row. I kept a firm grip on Frankie’s hand, as much for my own comfort as hers.

I was glad of the distraction when her steward announced a woman of middle age and a nervous girl, at least five years younger than Frankie.