George was sitting almost in the fire, his round form wrapped in a blanket, books all about him and his great white cat on his knee. We had no monkeys or finches on account of this cat, despite the children begging for them, and I loved the animal more because of it. The room was littered with the flotsam of children’s play, every surface covered in bottles of George’s medicine, penny broadsides, small trinkets precious to one or other child, all coated with cat hair and ash from the fire that was continuously burning to keep out the damp. The shutters muffled sound from the street. I felt safe in this patch of warmth and light; several times I had thought to tidy but had not found the inspiration to do so, it being dark and cold beyond this room.

“Mama,” said Katherine, our youngest daughter, barging into the room. She was swathed in so thick a shawl only the top half of her face could be seen. My neighbors laughed at the care I took of my children, jibing that I was a “fuss-a-lot,” but when their own fell ill they ran to me, shamefaced, for remedies. Katherine’s eyes were huge with wonder and she held before her a painted doll I had not seen before. “There’s a princess at the door,” she announced. Maggie, my aged maid, trudged past carrying a cloak with great dignity, for all the world like she was properly trained. I rose quickly, cheeks burning at the state of the room.

Frankie appeared in the doorway.

“Your ladyship!” I could not call her Frankie, so glorious did she appear among the detritus of family life. George pushed the cat from his knee as he stood and Katherine slipped her free hand into Frankie’s. How trusting are the young and greedy.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she said, making way for Mary, who elbowed past Frankie’s skirts to stare at her sister’s doll. “I would have come sooner but have been daily required to rehearse the Queen’s Masque. I am to play a warrior queen who leads the wives of my kingdom to slaughter their husbands!” Her laughter was strained and her eyes darted around but rested on nothing. I ushered her in.

“May I present Dr. Turner?”

“My husband speaks very highly of your care.”

“Gratified,” George said, bowing again but not smiling. He gestured to Frankie to take his chair and made to leave the room.

“Do stay if you will, Dr. Turner,” she said. Frankie wanted something from us, something more than I had already promised. I, who knew George’s face much better than my own, saw the dislike in it. It was not for Frankie herself, but for the Howards. He shuffled awkwardly through the clutter to perch on my low stool. At that point, three more of our children jostled their way in and stared at Frankie most rudely.