With an air of great importance, Henry pushed his way through his siblings and struggled back with the sack. She reached down and pulled from it a smaller bag, which she gave to him. Henry tipped this up and out fell a red leather ball and nine wooden pins with carved faces. He looked at Frankie and then away, then threw himself at her and wrapped his arms around her neck, saying, “Fankye, fankye.” She held him close for as long as he would permit. He kissed her repeatedly on the cheek until all but Thomas laughed, then jumped down and set to arranging the ninepins in fighting formation.

There were finest Italian marbles for Thomas, made not of clay but of colored glass with what seemed to be cat’s eyes within. He looked intrigued until Frankie explained that they were an artifice and not real eyes. For Barbara, a bottle of curious shape filled with perfume. For John, Camden’s book of histories and proverbs. For Mary, a doll like her sister’s, only with different hair and clothes. She blushed and reached for it gingerly, as if Frankie might be a spirit. Mary is a polite and tender child; she only forgot to thank Frankie because she was overwhelmed by the gift. I did not remind her, as I would with the others, for her intentions are always of the best. She has a weak chest, is much prone to coughing, and I cared for her with minute attention.

Frankie had listened keenly to all I had told her of my offspring; her gifts to them were perfectly chosen and I felt flattered yet heavy with the burden of them. What need had she to bribe me through gifts to my children? I glanced at George and knew he was thinking the same.

“Will you drink something?” I asked, sending out the children and the cat.

“Brandy,” she said. As George unlocked the cupboard and poured them both a tot, Frankie pulled a final gift from her sack. She handed me a flat, wooden box, inside which lay a pair of perfumed silk gloves with long fingers and embroidered cuffs. I had never owned anything so fine in my life. They were worth two years’ wages for my maid, at least. I stammered thanks but she waved these away, downed the brandy and handed the glass back to George. We all sat, he and I uncertain whether we were permitted to start a conversation with so high a personage. Frankie was looking at her fingers, listening to the children, who had gone upstairs to play.

“Dr. Turner, is my husband quite well?” she finally inquired. I felt him relax beside me and wondered what he had expected her to say.

“There is no danger; the smallpox is receding.”

“But he is still lacking in … appetite.”