‘She’s taken ill,’ the cook said. ‘Mrs Tradescant has put her to bed and sent Johnnie for the apothecary. Pray to God that it’s not the plague.’

‘Amen,’ John said and in the same breath: ‘Damn you for speaking such fears.’ He strode from the kitchen and ran up the stairs in his gardening boots, shedding mud on the polished wood treads. ‘Hester? Hester?’

She came out of Frances’s room and he saw at once from her face that his daughter was gravely ill. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Not –’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not the plague?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She grew very hot and said she would like to rest, then she just fainted clean away.’

He glanced superstitiously at the closed door. ‘Move her into our room,’ he said.

‘She’s in her own room, I don’t want to trouble her and move her,’ Hester said uncomprehendingly.

He shifted from one foot to another, fearful of even saying the words. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Her mother took the plague in that room, it was our bedroom. She made me move her from there to the orangery and there she died. Please don’t let Frances be in that room.’

Hester stepped towards him and took his dirty hands in her cool fingers. ‘John, these are old fears,’ she said. ‘This is Frances, not Jane. This is a fever, not the plague. She is a strong young woman and I will nurse her as well as I can. I won’t move her when she is comfortable in her own bed, and who better to watch over her from heaven than her own mother?’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Does she need anything?’

Hester thought quickly for a task to keep John occupied and to give him a sense of purpose. ‘I need herbs,’ she said. ‘Feverfew and chamomile, and sweet cicely against infection. Can you pick them for me?’

He nodded and went quickly towards the stairs.

‘And write a note and send it to Alexander,’ Hester said. ‘Don’t worry him too much, just tell him she has a fever, and she would like to see him, if he can come.’

John paused, obedient as a frightened boy. ‘Herbs or letter first?’ he asked.

‘Letter,’ she said. ‘Then the herbs, and then why don’t you pot her up a couple of tulips? She’d like to see them.’

‘I’ll bring her up the Semper,’ John said, promising the best of them all. ‘The Semper Augustus.’