“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is musical; she speaks English like a Frenchwoman—that accent which is the very sound of perfidy and glamour to honest English ears. “I thank you for your welcome, Lady Shrewsbury.”

“Please come in,” I say, hiding my smile at her pronunciation of “Shrewsbury,” which is really ridiculously affected. She sounds like an infant learning to talk with her “Chowsbewwy.” I gesture towards her lodgings. An anxious glance from my husband asks me if the place is habitable and I give him a little nod. He can trust me. I am a partner in this venture, as I am a partner in this marriage. I shall not fail him, nor he me.

There is a fire in her great hall and she goes towards it and sits herself in the big wooden chair that is drawn close to the blaze for her comfort. Since the wind is in the east the chimney will not blow back a buffet of woodsmoke, please God, and she must admire the table before her, which is spread with a fine Turkey carpet and my best gold abbey candlesticks. The tapestries on the walls are of the very best, woven by nuns, thank God for them, and in her bedroom she will find the bed curtains are of cloth of gold and the coverlet of the richest red velvet, which once graced the bed of a most senior churchman.

Everywhere is bright and warm, lit by the great square wax candles that are hers by right of being a queen, and in the sconces against the stone walls there are torches burning. She puts back the hood of her cape and I see her for the first time.