“But you seek remedies for problems of the heart,” stated Forman. Frankie shifted in her chair, probably impressed by Forman’s perspicacity, or that of the angels with whom he conversed, but I knew it was not those holy messengers that informed him of her concerns, but good intelligence. The entire Court knew of the unhappiness between Frankie and her husband, as did every laundress, maid and coach driver who worked there. Forman had probably slept with Frankie’s chambermaid to collect the gossip he needed. Frankie removed her mask. Forman blinked his lemur eyes at her beauty. I had suggested she remain masked and unnamed; as ever, she listened to advice, then did as she pleased. Had she forgotten already that we had just seen Lady Coke in Forman’s hall?

“Lady Frances Devereux, formerly Howard, Countess of Essex.”

“Abode?”

“Whitehall Palace, Greenwich Palace, Windsor Palace, Audley End in Suffolk, Charlton Park in Wiltshire and the houses and estates of my husband, sisters and brothers in London, Westminster and the country.” Forman wrote “various.”

“Age?”

“Your questions are outlandish.”

“Illnesses, including those of the heart, are frequently peculiar to certain ages.”

“Twenty.”

“Ask me your question,” Forman said, consulting the clock on his table and noting the time.

“Will I ever be free from my marriage?”

“You have no children and suspect none to be upon you?” he asked, without hint of censure.

“My husband cannot get children upon me.” Forman looked up but did not press for details. He moved his quill to the opposite page and wrote, “Mistress Anne Turner, widow, gentlewoman, Fetter Lane.”

“I am only here to accompany my friend.”

“There is nothing you wish to know? Let me help you, there will be no charge.”

“I am now in Paternoster Row.”

“Are you?” he said, not quite covering his surprise at the rapid deterioration in my circumstances. “Your age?”

“Thirty-four.”

“My dear, the years are kind to you. Six times taken to childbed?” I nod. “Your question?” he asked, noting the time.

To my surprise, there was not one question I could voice. Forman had been George’s friend for many years. It would sicken him to hear about Arthur.

“Come, Anne,” he encouraged me. Frankie stood and moved away to sit in the window and I, with some reluctance, sat in the vacated chair.

“When will Sir Arthur Waring be able to marry me?” I said, the skin on my face burning as if an iron swept across it.

“Is he in a position to?” said Forman.

“You knew?”

“George sought remedies for impotence while you gave birth to three children. I did not know who fathered them.”

We sat in silence until Forman looked again at the clock.

“Would he consider you as a wife?” Forman himself was the lover of many women he had no intention of marrying.