The wistfulness in her voice caught J’s attention. He took her hand and put his other hand gently on her belly. ‘They are for us,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Whatever is happening for the king and his foolish court. A new baby on the way and the garden growing well. These are good times for us, Jane, and better times coming.’

John’s prediction of a grandson was accurate. Jane gave birth to a large-boned brown-haired baby in the middle of the afternoon of a warm September day. J was picking apples at the furthest end of the orchard, finding the cries of Jane’s labour quite unbearable. John and Frances were keeping each other company looking for the early fallen chestnuts down John’s little avenue.

‘We’ll roast them,’ Frances teased her grandfather with the cleverness of the bright three-year-old.

‘They’re not sweet chestnuts.’ John fell into the trap. ‘They’re no good for eating.’

‘It’s no good as a tree then,’ she said innocently. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘Oh, Frances …’ John started and then he saw the bright twinkle in her eyes. ‘You are a wicked girl!’ he pronounced. ‘And I think I will beat you.’ He started to run towards her and she picked up her little gown and ran out of his reach, down the avenue of trees towards her father.

‘John! J!’ It was Elizabeth’s voice, calling from the terrace. John saw his son’s white face turn towards the house, then his slithering fall down the ladder, and then his run, past his daughter and his father, up the avenue towards the house.

‘Is she all right?’

His mother’s face alone was reassurance enough. ‘She’s fine,’ she said. ‘Very tired. And you have a son.’

J gave a little yelp of delight. ‘A son!’ he yelled down the avenue where Tradescant was limping up with Frances bobbing in his wake. ‘A son! A boy!’

John checked and a broad smile spread across his face. He turned to Frances. ‘You have a brother,’ he told her. ‘Your mother has given birth to a little boy.’

She was on her dignity, the powerful dignity of the three-year-old, and determined to be unimpressed. ‘Is that very good?’ she asked.

John scooped her up and swung her to her usual place on his back. ‘It’s very good,’ he said. ‘It means our name will last forever, with a son to continue the line. Sir John Tradescant of the Ark, Lambeth. It sounds very well indeed.’

‘I shall be a Sir too,’ Frances said, rather muffled with her face pressed into his back.

‘Yes, you will,’ John said agreeably. ‘I shall make sure that the king knows that you need a knighthood, when we next speak.’

Winter 1633–4