Lady Suffolk greeted neither of us, but stood behind Larkin and watched critically as he painted, looking from easel to daughter until, with a slight tut, she moved to a full-length portrait leaning against the south wall. It was of herself. She spent some time appraising it before walking slowly past others of similar size and composition, all painted to commemorate the marriage of her second son, Thomas. She paused by some covered paintings in the corner. “Who is under here?” she called the length of the studio. Larkin pretended not to hear. The Countess flicked at the coverings before the painter could stop her.

“Herberts, Russells and Seymours, hmm? What is the happy event?” she said, with so sharp an edge to her voice that I worried she had intelligence about these members of Essex’s crew. Since Frankie’s separation from the Earl, they had formed a close-knit party.

“If he be not Master Rubens, a painter cannot refuse commissions,” said Larkin.

The Countess stared at Larkin but he said no more. “I will stay a while, hmm?” she announced, pleasing no one, and a chair was brought. “Mistress Turner, I am surprised to discover you here. I have seen you little of late.”

“I have been at home, my lady,” I said. “I have a daughter in poor health.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said she, brightly, “that must leave you little time to follow fashion. Hmm?” She looked me up and down with exaggerated amazement at the modesty of my attire and I grew hot at the insult but said nothing. There was no money for me to make or repair clothes. Soon there would be none left for bread and broth. Frankie was also studying my worn hems and the thinning silk at my elbows.

She waved me closer as her mother told Larkin how to improve the likeness.

“Weston says Overbury is very ill and Dr. Mayerne has been in attendance, which will soon put an end to him,” I told her, expecting a smile, but Frankie remained serious.

“Are you quite well?” her mother called out.

“Doctors kill people all the time with their physick,” murmured Frankie. I knew what she was hinting at, but I would not take the bait.

“But Robert Carr might be too distraught at the death of his best friend to marry the woman he hated.”

She nodded, but without appearing to consider what I had said. “If Overbury is released, we will not survive it.” She returned to her pose, looking straight at Larkin, but her attention was on me.

“This portrait will be of an old woman if you two do not stop gossiping,” called out the Countess.

“What are you saying, Frankie?” I said, very softly.