John’s ship took the southerly route home and revictualled and took on cargo at Barbados. John, very conscious that he was bringing home a fortune only in seeds and roots which would take an unreliable year before they could be propagated and sold, strolled on the quayside and let it be known that he was prepared to execute errands for the wealthy planters for a small consideration. While the ship was loaded with barrels of sugar and rum John walked inland, past the sugar plantations where gangs of black men and women slaves were bent over the new plants, seeding and weeding the crop while white overseers lounged on their horses with long-tongued hunting whips ready to lash out. John found his way into the woods where the fields stopped and kept his eyes open for new plants.

It was returning from one of these walks, with a couple of seedlings damp in his pocket, that John met a man riding homeward on the road.

‘I heard of you,’ the man greeted him informally. ‘You’re Tradescant, the king’s gardener, aren’t you?’

John uncovered his head and made a little bow. ‘Yes, sir. And you?’

‘Sir Henry Hants. A planter, these are my fields. I have a little garden of my own, you might like to have a look at some of my things.’

‘Indeed I would,’ John said eagerly.

‘Oh, come for dinner then,’ the man said. ‘Stay the night.’

He led the way along the lane towards a large white house, as grand as the queen’s manor at Wimbledon. John blinked at the opulence of the building, at the best wax candles set at every window so that the house twinkled like a beacon in the soft twilight, and then at the rush of black servants who came running when they heard the sound of the master’s horse.

Sir Henry dismounted and let the horse go, secure in the knowledge that two grooms would catch the reins, as he led the way indoors.

There was a terrace at the back of the house and Sir Henry led John through the gleaming hall where the white walls were laden with rich oil paintings, to where the last of the sun was shining on the terrace. A lady gestured languidly from a sofa. ‘My wife, Lady Hants,’ Sir Henry said briefly. ‘Never gets up.’

John bowed and was rewarded by a faint wave.

‘Now, let me show you my garden,’ Sir Henry said eagerly.