‘Of course. Her father is a preacher.’

‘A travelling preacher?’

‘No, he has his own chapel and a congregation. He’s a most respected man.’

‘You are serious about her?’

‘I wish to marry her,’ J said. He looked at his father as if measuring how far he could trust him with a confidence. ‘I wish to marry her soon. I have been disturbed recently.’

‘Disturbed?’

‘Yes. Sometimes I find it hard to think of her only as a spiritual partner and companion.’

John bit the inside of his cheeks to suppress a smile. ‘You can love her body as well as her soul, I suppose.’

‘Only if we are married.’

‘Does she want to marry?’

J flushed a deep brick red and bent over the roses. ‘I think she might,’ he said. ‘But I could not ask her while you were away. I needed you to meet her father and discuss her dowry and all the arrangements.’

John nodded. ‘We’ll stay overnight in London,’ he decided. J’s apprentice lovemaking seemed very sweet and young compared to the complexity of his own pain. ‘Send them word that we can come at dinnertime and perhaps they will ask us to dine.’

‘I’m sure they will. Only, Father …’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re very devout people, and they think badly of the king. We will have a better time if we do not talk about the king or the court, or the archbishop.’

‘Or Ireland, or the enclosures, or the Ile de Rhé, or my lord Buckingham, or my lord Stafford, or ship money, or the court of wards, or anything,’ John said impatiently. ‘I am not a fool, J. I will not embarrass you before your sweetheart.’

‘She’s not my sweetheart,’ J said quickly. ‘She’s my … my …’

‘Intended helpmeet,’ John suggested, without a glimmer of a smile.

‘Yes,’ J said, pleased. ‘Yes. She’s my intended helpmeet.’

John had expected an austere shop with an unsmiling proprietor and a whey-faced daughter, and was amazed by the well-stocked counter and the plump round-faced woman who sat outside the shop and invited customers to come in.

‘I’m Mistress Hurte,’ she said. ‘My daughter’s inside. My husband is visiting a sick friend and will be home in time for dinner. Step inside, Mr Tradescant.’

Jane Hurte was on her knees behind the counter, tidying the immaculate shelves. She rose up as they came in and John had to blink his eyes to prepare them for the dark interior of the shop. He saw at once that J had been baffled in his description of her because she had a complex intelligent face full of character, neither simply pretty nor plain. Her forehead was broad and smooth and her brown hair was swept back under a plain cap. Her gown was grey but well-cut and flowing, and her white collar was trimmed with lace. She looked at John with a keen intelligence, and a twinkle of humour.