John sat on the stone seat for a long time with the letter in his hand, the high skies of Essex arched cold and grey above his head. Only when the cold of the stone seat and the cold of the winter winds had chilled him to the very bone did he stir and realise that the coldness was from the world around him, and not seeping icily into his veins from his heart.

‘I have to go to London,’ Tradescant remarked to J. They were working side by side in the duke’s rose garden, pruning the year’s growth down to sharp sticks cut carefully on the slant.

‘Can I go for you?’ J asked.

‘What for?’

‘I could help you.’

‘I’m not in my dotage,’ John said. ‘I think I can get to London and back with a wagon on my own.’

‘If you are carrying valuables …’

‘Then I’ll hire a man with a musket.’

‘You might like my company …’

‘Or I might prefer to travel alone. What’s the secret, J? You never liked London before?’

J straightened up and pushed his plain hat back on his head. ‘I would like to visit a young woman,’ he announced. ‘You could come and see her too. Her parents would make us both very welcome.’

John stood up, one hand on his aching back. ‘A young woman? What young woman?’

‘Her name is Jane. Jane Hurte. Her father has a mercer’s shop near to the docks. While you were away, a package came for his lordship and they sent me down to London to fetch it. Mother wanted some buttons and I stepped into the Hurtes’ shop. Jane Hurte took my money and we had a few words of conversation.’

John waited, taking care not to smile. There was something deeply endearing about this stilted account of courtship.

‘Then I took a lift with the sheep fleeces down to the market, and visited her again.’

‘In June?’ John asked, thinking of shearing time.

‘Yes. And then the duchess wanted something fetched from the London house, so I went down on the cart with her maid and spent the day with the Hurtes.’

‘How many times have you been there?’

‘Six times,’ J said reverently.

‘Is she a pretty lass?’

‘She’s not a lass, she’s a young lady. She’s twenty-three.’

‘I beg her pardon! Is she fair or dark?’

‘Sort of dark, well, she’s not golden-haired, but not altogether dark.’

‘Pretty?’

‘She’s not painted and curled and half-naked, like the women of the court. She’s modest and …’

‘Is she pretty?’

‘I think so.’

‘If you are the only one that thinks so then she must be plain,’ John teased.

‘She’s not plain,’ J replied seriously. ‘She’s … she’s … she looks like herself.’

John abandoned hope of getting much sense from his son about Jane Hurte’s looks. ‘Does she share your beliefs?’