“I am coming,” I say, and I untie the sash at the waist of my nightgown and drop it, fearlessly, to the floor. I see his eyes take in my rounded breasts, my tiny waist, the slight turn of my spine that forces one shoulder before another. Apart from that little twist, I am flawless, a beauty in miniature. I shake my head and my hair falls forward, hiding my blushing face, smelling of roses.

“Come at once,” he replies, and he strips off his breeches, pulls off his shirt, and holds out his hands to me. He lifts me, naked as I am, into the high broad bed. He comes after me, rolls towards me like a felled tree, takes me in his arms and holds me against his great chest. “My darling,” he says tenderly. “My love.”

* * *

I don’t stay all night with my husband. I am back in my own rooms by the time the court comes home and my ladies undress me and put me to bed without realizing that I only joined the court as they returned. Frances the maid takes my shoes without a flicker of expression. I think I will lie awake, sleepless from joy, but as soon as my head is on the pillow I fall asleep and I don’t wake until the girl comes into the room with the logs to make up the fire.

It is my morning to wait upon Elizabeth, and so I get washed and dressed and hurry to the royal rooms, and only when I am halfway there do I catch myself up and think: He loves me. He held me last night like a man drowned in the deepest of loves. He has married me. He loves me. I am his wife.

It is like a song that goes on and on in my mind all day. As Elizabeth sees ambassadors, rides out with Robert Dudley, comes back hungry for her breakfast, flirts with the Spanish ambassador in the hopes of persuading him that she has serious thoughts of marriage, and then wins money at cards before leading the court in to dinner, all day, I think only: he loves me. He held me last night like a man in the deepest of loves. He has married me. He loves me. I am his wife.

* * *

When the court has finished dinner and they are clearing the hall for dancing and a troop of tumblers, I go down to the front gate and there is Thomas, tall as a tree, admitting the citizens of London who have come to see the dancing.

“Good day, Lady Mary,” he says to me aloud. “Good day, Mrs. Keyes,” he says to me quietly.

“Good day, husband,” I say, smiling up at him. “I have come to see if I should come to your room secretly, when the court is asleep.”