“Did you design it?” John de Critz asked, impressed.

“My son designed it,” John told him. “But we both worked on the planting scheme. It is harder with Their Majesties than with a lord who is at home most of the time. When they come on a visit they expect it to be perfect, but you never know when the visit will be. We have to grow everything in pots or nursery beds, and only put the plants in when we know they are coming. We can’t wait to let the plants grow fine and strong in the beds and succeed each other. Their Majesties need it perfect at each visit.”

“You are a painter yourself,” the man remarked. “What patterns and color! This is even better than Hatfield.”

“I have no sense of smell,” John explained. “My son prizes flowers for their scent, and loves working with herbs for their perfume. But, since I can smell nothing, I love bright colors and shapes.”

The two men turned from the window and John led the way down to the great hall where the king and the household would dine, and then out into the court before the hall.

“Do you sleep in the hall?” John asked.

“My niece is with me; we have rooms in the old wing,” the man replied.

“Does she always accompany you?” John asked, surprised. The aristocratic members of the court might confine themselves to platonic love or to delicate trysts, but the rest of the royal household could be a rough place for a young woman when the fanciful romantic behavior of the royal parade had passed by.

“Her father died of the plague and her mother cannot support her,” the man said. “And, to tell you the truth, she has a fine eye and can work as well as any draftsman. I often let her draw for me and block the designs out on paper, and then I transfer them to the walls.”

“I will see you both at dinner then,” John said. The spring sun-shine was warm on his face and he could hear the birds singing. “I must get out and see how they are digging in the kitchen garden.”

De Critz raised his hand and went back into the palace to start his drawings for the queen.

John joined de Critz at the dinner table at midday in the great hall. At the top table were the king and queen and the favored courtiers of the day, with hundreds of rich and elaborate dishes laid before them. The queen held out her white hands for her lady-in-waiting to pull off, one at a time, each of the priceless rings, and pour a stream of warm clean water over her fingertips and then dab them with a napkin of the finest damask.

John noted, with no sign of disapproval showing in his face, that seated on one side of the queen was her confessor, and beside the king was the French ambassador. Grace was said in a quiet mutter in Latin by the queen’s confessor and it was undoubtedly a Roman Catholic grace. There was no sign at all that this was a Protestant court in a Protestant country.

There was no sign, either, of the royal family. Their portrait was there, right enough, all five children as lovely as angels under the painter’s tactful depiction. But the real children were never at their parents’ dinner table. The queen prided herself on the passion of her maternal feelings, but tended to exercise them on her real children only occasionally, and mainly when she was being watched in public.

A young woman in her mid-twenties, dressed simply but elegantly in subdued colors, walked briskly into the hall, bowed low to the top table and dropped a slight curtsey to her uncle.

“This is my niece, Hester Pooks,” John de Critz said. “John Tradescant, the king’s gardener.”

She did not bob a curtsey to John but looked him straight in the face with a smile and held out her hand for a brief firm handshake. “I am glad to meet you,” she said. “I have been walking round and round the gardens and I think I have never seen anything more lovely.”

It was the quickest route to John’s heart. He pulled out a chair for her and helped her to a piece of bread from the platter, and meat from the serving bowl which was before them. He told her about the making and improving of the Oatlands gardens, about the new breeds of tulips just blushing into colors, about the deep digging in the kitchen garden and the enormous asparagus bed.

“I made some sketches of the fruit trees in bud and those little daffodils beneath them,” she said. “I’ve never seen an orchard so pretty.”

“I should like to see your sketches,” John said.

“The grass is like a tapestry or a painting,” she remarked. “The true flowery mead. You can hardly see the green for flowers.”

“Now that’s just what I intended,” John said, his enthusiasm growing. “It has to be balanced all the time, and mown at the right time so that you don’t cut the flowers before they are seeded, and you have to pull the plants which are running away and drowning the rest… but I am so glad you saw it. It is supposed to look artless, and that is the hardest thing to get right!”

“So now I have a drawing based on a garden, which is based on a tapestry, which will have been based on a drawing.”

“And perhaps at the very back of it all, there was a garden.”

She looked at him with quick comprehension in her dark eyes. “The first garden? Of Eden? Do you see that as a flowery mead? I have always thought of it as a French garden, with beautiful walks.”

“Certainly there must have been an orchard.” John had an enjoyable sense of intellectual freedom, being allowed to speculate about the Bible, which, at home, had to be accepted as a revealed truth and read with uncritical devotion. “There must have been at least two apple trees.”

“Two?”

“To pollinate. Otherwise the Devil himself would have had no fruit for tempting poor Adam!”

“But I thought the scholars were now saying that Adam did not eat an apple but an apricot.”

“Really?” John had an alarming sense of the world shifting beyond the limits of his lighthearted skepticism. “But it says apple in the Bible.”

“Our Bible in English is translated from the Greek, which was translated from the Hebrew. There are bound to be errors in the translations.”

“My son would say-” He broke off. He was no longer sure what J would say. “A man of faith would say that there cannot be errors. That since it is the revealed word of God it must be perfect.”

She nodded as if it did not matter very much. “A man of faith would have to have faith,” she said simply. “But a man who questions would be bound to question.”

John looked at her doubtfully. “And are you a woman who questions?”

She smiled at him, a sudden smile illuminating her face and making her suddenly a pretty young woman. “I have a brain in my head to think for myself – but no elevated principles.”

Her uncle was shocked. “Hester!” He turned to John. “Indeed, she does herself an injustice. She is a very principled young woman.”

“I don’t doubt it…”

Hester shook her head. “I am completely respectable, which is what my uncle means; but I am talking about convictions and political principles.”

“You sound as if you are a doubter,” John commented.

“I think for myself but I never neglect the conventions,” she explained. “This is a hard world for all of us, and especially for women. My study has been to avoid giving offense and to advance my own career.”

“As a painter?” John asked.

She gave him her open, honest smile. “As a painter and a maid for now. But I shall want to marry well and care for my family and further my husband’s prosperity.”

John, accustomed to Jane’s high morality, was torn between shock at her frankness and a sense of freedom at her honesty. “Nothing more than that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think there is anything more than that.”

“And she can certainly draw.” Her uncle moved the conversation into safer areas. “I thought I would use her sketches of your flowery mead as a background in some of the pictures for the queen’s walls.”