Frankie paid her respects as soon as she heard of George’s passing and became a regular visitor to Fetter Lane. My children were in love with her and her two dogs, although George’s cat made herself scarce. Even Thomas behaved when she was around. I would lend her a loose house jacket and she would open shutters and stoke fires and attend to all the tasks she was forbidden to do in her own apartments. I encouraged her to use her hands and together we sewed French Babies. It seemed Frankie was new to the pleasure of friendship between women, the comfort we bring each other when sharing labor and confidences. Her mother and sisters strictly upheld the rule of obedience to a husband, never complaining, never voicing their unhappiness. Other women at Court envied Frankie or were afraid of her boldness. In that strange time of grief, shuttered up with her and my children, she and I became as close as fish and the water in which they swim, no secret too intimate for us to share. These domestic moments rooted the profound sense of recognition we had felt in each other’s company from the start. I spoke of my grief and she of her mounting fears that the efforts to end her virginity had failed and that soon her husband would start to whip her again.

“The two Roberts in my life could not be more different,” she said on one occasion.

I raised an eyebrow at the idea of Sir Robert Carr being “in her life,” but he was certainly in her dreams. “Your love is wasted on both,” I said. “The one does not value it, the other cannot marry you for it.” It was true, though perhaps bleak. She did not take offense. I think she was glad I understood the depth of her frustration; to be the most beautiful woman at Court and not to know love. I was a good enough friend to tell her things she did not want to hear.

“My mother has affairs, why should I not?”

“She has given your father fourteen children, ten of whom she has kept alive, and he is a very different man from your husband.”

On later visits, I saw bruises on her arms.