Our party was handed cups of wine by a young drab. “I need a little courage,” I said to Frankie. She clinked her cup against mine and we lifted the masks to down the contents. Little dishes of stewed prunes were also passed around. “Don’t bother with those,” she said. “They cure syphilis but that, thank God, is one predicament we do not face.” Another queane was handing out small linen bags with fat, brown pellets inside that smelt strongly of nutmeg and vinegar.

“Stick it up your whibwob before he gets started,” the young drab explained, “to stop a baby coming.”

“The smell alone would be sufficient deterrent,” said Frankie.

The noise soared with the general drunkenness and, I confess, Frankie and I also grew merry with wine. Many looked repeatedly at the stage. Something more extraordinary was to happen than the tableau thereon. Harry suddenly shouted, “Rabbie! Over he’e, Rabbie!”

Harry’s Scots accent was delivered with such precision and seriousness that it took me a few moments to realize that he was hailing Sir Robert Carr, who grinned beneath a mask that hid only his eyes. Beside him, also narrowly masked, was Sir Thomas Overbury, pursing his lips at Harry’s mimicry of the King.

As Carr made his way toward us, all eyes turning to watch his progress as sunflowers follow the sun, I had a sudden picture of Queen Anna before my eyes. She had not made me her chief dresser but often asked me to design clothes for public occasions. In them, she was strong and powerful; out of them, she was still ignored, for her husband was entirely besotted with this young man eagerly approaching us. Upon him were heaped estates, titles, responsibilities of government, and kisses, such that the hatred of other courtiers, both Scottish and English, kept pace with his vertiginous rise.

Carr slapped the Howard brothers on the shoulders with a forwardness they suffered only for the sake of further sport with him. Carr glanced at Frankie. She did not acknowledge him. Thomas nodded and walked off toward another group.

“First time?” asked Harry of Carr.

“For Sir Thomas,” he replied, as Overbury reached them.

Harry and Theo ignored him.

“Which one’s yours?” asked Harry, waving at the portraits. Carr looked at Frankie, again.

“I just come to drink,” he said, avoiding the question rather well, I thought. “Have you met Sir Thomas Overbury?” he said, before Frankie’s brothers could divert him. They were forced to acknowledge him. Overbury should have replied with a low bow but gave the briefest of bobs. I had never seen so public a snub; instantly the air around us thickened. Frankie pulled me to her. Carr laughed very loud and slapped Overbury on the back, as if to remind him to bow, but Overbury ignored his friend and did not break eye contact with the Howard brothers.