“Frankie?” I was nervous to introduce her to Arthur; she understood his place in my life, although I had never been explicit. She turned to study him, taking note perhaps of his age, somewhere between mine and her own, his handsome face and apparel, but I sensed she saw him very differently from the way I did. He executed an extravagant bow but Frankie struggled to find something to say. Perhaps she was thinking too hard of what she must avoid discussing, such as children and spouses.

“I understand that you are a keen falconer?” she finally managed. Arthur did his best to be witty, but there was no sympathy between them. Even so, she allowed me happiness where I found it; we were generous to each other in this respect as many are not. Frankie knew as well as I that everything conspires against happiness. Chance, time, the rules of civilized life, grief, pain, an imbalance of humors, all make it extraordinary that any of us are ever happy. When we are, it is fleeting.

It struck me that Frankie and Arthur could be jealous of each other, wishing themselves sole beneficiary of my love, but I immediately dismissed the thought as extreme hubris for which God would punish me. I prayed to my angel to keep me from too great pride and vanity, for all that I depend on those sins in others. I had reached a place beyond my most preposterous dreams that day, thanks to Frankie; I was not ready to fall.

It was three in the morning when the Queen withdrew and the party ended. Several of the ladies-in-waiting were asleep on cushions, gentlemen lolling in window seats. Precious pieces of the old Queen’s clothing were scattered about like furniture broken in a fight.

“Shall I accompany you to Whitehall?” asked Robert Carr of Frankie, as her coach was brought to the door. The puddles had frozen and he was shaking in his silk, slightly damp from exertion. She ignored him and gave me great kisses on both cheeks before climbing in. “We’re both going the same way,” he persisted, smiling at her hauteur. “Your maid is with you, there’ll be no talk.”

As the driver reached his seat, her hand appeared through the unglazed window, holding a fur rug for him to put over his shoulders on the walk home. He took it and blew her a kiss. She sat back so that he could no longer see her and Robert Carr set off walking, throwing the rug over his head and shoulders, like any bog-dweller, laughing.

Arthur was low in precedence in this august group and it was a long time before his coach was summoned. We fell asleep against each other on the journey and were too tired, once we reached his apartment in St. James’s Palace, to take advantage of a rare night alone.

From that day, for almost a year, I was entirely happy.

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