Frances clapped her hands. ‘Let’s go!’ she said. ‘I’d rather weed my own garden than the king’s any day!’

Alexander took her hands and turned them palms upwards. They were filthy from lifting the bulbs and her fingernails were broken. ‘You’ll never be a lady with hands like these,’ he said. ‘You should wear gloves.’

‘Oh phoo,’ Frances said, pulling her hands away. ‘I don’t care about being a lady. I’m a working woman like Mother.’

‘Well you’ll never sew silk with callused hands,’ Alexander replied. ‘So I shall never bring you ribbons again.’

She knew him too well to fear his threats. ‘Then I shall never dance for you or sing to you or speak to you kindly,’ she said.

‘Enough,’ Hester remarked. ‘There’s enough warfare in the kingdom without it starting at home. We’ll finish lifting these tulips and then we’ll pack and go home. I am longing to sleep in my own bed again.’

Winter 1643, Virginia

John had not thought it possible that he could become one of the Powhatan but by the autumn he felt as if his London life was left far behind him. There was so much for him to learn that every day was completely absorbing. He was all but fluent in the language – an easy task since once he was adopted into the People not one of them would speak English to him. Within weeks he was speaking nothing but Powhatan, and within months he was thinking in their rich natural imagery. It was not just the language he had to master, but their very way of thinking, of being. He had to learn the pride of a man whose land has been directly given to him, as a favour from the Great Hare. He had to learn the joy of providing food for his family, and for his village to eat. He had to learn the tiny pleasures of family and village life, the easy jokes, the sudden flare-ups of irritation, the appeal of gossip, the danger of making mischief, the delight of Suckahanna’s growing boy and baby, and the dark, constant pleasure of the coming of the night.

They never talked when they made love. They never spoke of it. With his first wife, Jane, it had been that some things were not to be mentioned because they were secret, almost shameful; but with Suckahanna the pleasures of the sleeping platform where anything was possible, where any pleasure might be sought and any sensation given, were pleasures of the darkness and silence. In the daytime and during speech they were in abeyance, waiting for the darkness that would come again.