Frances, bathed, dressed, perfumed and wearing a new gown, came downstairs in a shimmering cloud of palest blue silk. She wore her hair down to her shoulders, curled in ringlets, a tiny scrap of lace for a cap on the back of her head. Her gown, rich pale silk embroidered all over with pale blue patterns, hushed and whispered on the flagstones of the hall. Her wide collar was of the finest Valenciennes lace; the future Mrs Norman could import the very best from France. It matched the deep lace edging of her sleeves, crisp and sweet-smelling with starch. The dress was cut low, the cream of Frances’s warm skin contrasting with the coolness of the white lace.

‘How do I look?’ Frances asked, knowing that she was beautiful.

‘Awful ugly,’ Johnnie said with a smile, invoking the nursery insult. He whipped out a posy from behind his back. ‘I picked you these. But you don’t have to carry them if you don’t like ’em.’

Frances took the posy from him without any word of gratitude or thanks and looked carefully at it. Hester was reminded that they were children and grandchildren of perhaps the finest gardeners the world had ever known. Neither of them exclaimed over the gift of a plant, they always carefully looked, carefully assessed.

He had cut her fronds of yew, the needles as soft as wool, the green so dark as to be almost black, starred with deep pink berries and smelling hauntingly of winter and Christmas. He had picked her mistletoe from the clumps on the old trees in the orchard and woven the light green wings of leaves around the darker yew so the white berries looked like drops of pearls against the needles. He had found some tiny buds of early snowdrops and woven them into a chain which linked leaves, needles and buds altogether, and he had twisted it around with the lace-like twigs of a rambling rose starred with pink hips.

‘Thank you,’ Frances said.

‘But I have this for your hair,’ Johnnie said with simple pride. From the table behind him he produced a spray of primroses, and their sweet, clear smell filled the hall.

‘How ever did you get primroses?’ Frances asked.

‘Potted them up as soon as you said you’d marry him,’ Johnnie said proudly. ‘I wasn’t going to let you catch me out with a winter wedding. We are the Tradescants, after all.’