“Here,” said the Earl, pointing at the floor. Frankie hesitated, unsure whether he meant her or the dog. He clicked his fingers in her direction.

“Why are your feet bare?”

“To run after the puppy,” Frankie lied, standing on the spot he had indicated. They were bare because she disliked the restriction of shoes.

“We do not run after dogs. They obey us,” he said. “Mistress Turner, take Purkoy to the far end of the room.” I started. He had never used my name before and, I think, allowed my visits only because Frankie had been making greater efforts to please him since my arrival. Not only had she asked him to choose a puppy from the litter she had found, but also to name it. Essex had decided on the same name that Frankie’s kinswoman, Anne Boleyn, had given her dog. French for “why,” the Earl claimed it was because the puppy was inquisitive, an unfortunate trait in dog or wife; I suspected it was to remind Frankie of the consequences of displeasing a husband.

I carried the puppy to the far end of the long chamber.

“Call your dog,” he instructed Frankie. “Once, firmly.”

“Purkoy!” she called.

The puppy lolloped forward promisingly but lost interest halfway and sniffed at the floor. Brutus, however, rushed with all enthusiasm at his mistress and jumped as high as her waist. She deftly caught him, laughing.

“Down!” roared the Earl, grabbing the tiny dog by its scruff and slamming it onto the floor, pressing on the neck of the whimpering creature. Frankie’s hand flew to her mouth. Once the dog was silent, the Earl released his grip and pointed toward the open door of Frankie’s chamber. “Go!” The little dog sloped off, his tail pressed between his back legs, looking at Frankie reproachfully from the corner of his eyes.

“You must show a dog who is master,” said the Earl. “Now, call the pup.”

“Purkoy,” said Frankie, all enjoyment gone from her voice. Purkoy ignored her and Essex marched up to the dog, tied the long leash to its collar and carried him back to me. As he pushed the dog’s tail down to make him sit, he spoke quietly.

“I hear from Dr. Turner that there are tonics to improve the balance of my wife’s humors. I would have you give them to her.” I was, as rarely happens, lost for words. I thought it contemptible that he should whisper to me while Frankie was in the room. That he and George had talked about her also annoyed me, although I know that was unfair as I had spent many hours discussing Essex with Frankie. “And dress her with greater modesty,” he continued, which remark restored my tongue to life.