“I take issue only on behalf of my friend and also accept your offer on her behalf,” I said, inclining my head.

I watched Sir Richard count out eight gold sovereigns from a heavy bag. My heart ached as he returned the bag and locked the strongbox. I would have many uses for those coins shut up in darkness, doing nothing but gathering more to themselves. He stood, walked around the end of the table and held out the bag to me like a morsel to summon a dog. My neck stiffened and the hairs on my arms prickled a warning. He was not tall, perhaps a head taller than me, but he was strong. With extreme wariness, I stood and took a few paces toward the door before extending my arm. As my fingers closed around the purse he pulled it back into his chest and his other hand shot out and grabbed my breast. I cried out and tried to jump back but his grip was too tight. He yanked at my skirt and spoke low and fast into my neck.

“You can have more. Show me kindness and I will help you. You are in want. We can help each other.” He was pressing his groin against me, pushing me to the wall, his fingers digging excruciatingly into my bosom.

My mind slowed. Hands, pain, breath.

“I am spoken for!” I shouted suddenly. Sir Richard hesitated at the thought that there might be a man to answer to. In that brief respite, I ripped free and fell toward the door, scrabbling at the latch and stumbling downstairs, shouting for my cloak.

I staggered from the house, shouldering aside any person who came too close, not stopping to visit Thomas, buy what I needed or tarry in any way until I turned into the familiar bustle of Paternoster Row. Here I leaned against the wall of our house and wiped sweat from my face. I could hear the children’s voices inside but not what they said. I was not quite recovered by the time I opened the door, but people were beginning to notice me standing motionless in the street.

Henry cannoned into my skirts.

I swung him up, although at seven he did not always allow it, and buried my nose in his hair to rid me of the memory of Sir Ingram’s meaty breath. The boy squirmed his way down to the floor, his body taking less time to fill with love than did mine. He held a wooden spoon in his hand, on the shallow bowl of which someone had drawn a face in charcoal, the features smeared. Around the stem of the spoon was a knitted frill.

“It’s you!” said Henry, waving the spoon in my face. I leaned heavily against the wall, seeing in my mind’s eye the shattered spoon lying beside George’s dead cat.