In the silkworm house the shelves were full of dusty little corpses. When the king and queen had left the court and abandoned the old life, the boiler had gone out and all the worms had died. Hester, with her instinctive hatred of waste, cleaned out the trays and swept the floor with a bustling irritation against a queen who could command such things into being, and then forget them completely. Every day Hester and Frances hitched up their skirts, rolled up their sleeves and worked in the gardens, noting the positions of the tulips which should be lifted in autumn, tying in climbing plants to the bowers and arbors, and weeding, weeding, weeding: the white gravel of the stone gardens, the drive, the terrace, the stone-flagged arbors. Johnnie put himself in charge of the watercourses and drained and scrubbed them, coming home at dusk wet through with triumphant tales of streams running clean, and cracks in the watercourses repaired with his own sticky mixture of clay and white chalk.

In the afternoons he was allowed to watch the cavalry drilling, practicing turning and wheeling at a shouted order, and once he saw Prince Rupert himself on his huge horse with his poodle held over his saddlebow and his dark hair in a curled mane over his shoulders. Johnnie came home full of joy at the sight of the handsome prince. Prince Rupert had seen him and smiled at him and Johnnie had asked if he could serve in his regiment as soon as he was old enough and could find another horse.

“You didn’t say anything about the cavalier who took Father’s horse?” Hester asked quickly.

At once all the boyish wildness drained from his face and he looked cautious. “Of course not,” he said quickly. “I’m not a child.”

Hester had to stop herself from drawing him onto her knee and taking him in her arms. “Of course you’re not,” she said. “But we must all mind our tongues in these dangerous days.”

She smiled to reassure him that she was not afraid; but at night, in all the long dark nights, Hester remembered that she was in exile from her home and in danger of her life, and sometimes she feared that while they were safely hidden at Oatlands the other army, who were at least as well-armed and perhaps as well-trained as this one, might march on the little house at Lambeth and destroy it with all the treasures and all the plants as a nest of treason.

She could get neither news nor gossip. The soldiers stationed at Oatlands Palace knew nothing more than they would get their marching orders any day, and Hester was too fearful to go into Weybridge for news. She had to wait for a message from Alexander Norman. In the third week of June he came himself.

Frances saw him first. She and Hester were grubbing in the flower beds of the queen’s court, lifting the early tulips and putting the precious bulbs into sacks to take away.

“Look!” Frances exclaimed, and in the next moment she was up and running like a child with her arms outstretched to him.

For a moment he hesitated and then he spread his arms to her and folded her tight. Over her light brown head his eyes met Hester’s and he gave her a small apologetic smile. Frances pulled back to see his face but did not unclasp her hands from their grip around his back. “Are we safe?” she demanded urgently.

“Praise God, yes,” he said.

Hester felt her knees go weak and sank down on a stone seat. For a moment she could not speak. Then she asked: “The man got safe home to Oxford?”

“And sent your mare back with a hidden note in the saddle which apologized for seizing the animal at swordpoint. If anyone does inquire we can show them the note, which will serve as a strong argument in your defense. We have been lucky indeed.”

Hester shut her eyes and breathed deeply for a moment. “I have been more afraid than I was ready to admit.”

“And I,” Alexander Norman said with a gleam. “I have been trembling in my boots for the last fortnight.”

“I knew we’d be safe,” Frances said. “I knew you would keep us safe, Uncle Norman.”

“What other news?” Hester asked.

“Waller, who started the whole plot, is the only one to get off scot-free,” Alexander said, his voice low. “Every time the king uses such weak reeds as this, he falls in the estimation of every right-thinking person. Waller confessed everything, he named everyone he had spoken to and thanks to his ready tongue two men have been hanged for conspiracy, though they did far less than him, and at his bidding. And there will be more to die.”

Hester shook her head in disapproval.

“Waller himself is fined and imprisoned, but the news of his treachery and of his conspiracy has driven the Parliament men closer together. There’s a new oath of loyalty and they’re all eager to make close alliance with the House of Lords and with the Scots. The king has done his cause the worst damage he could have done – he has frightened his enemies into friendship with each other, and not advanced himself a single step. And any man of judgment must despise Waller, and his master too.”

Hester rose from the seat. “So I can go home?”

“Yes. I called in at Lambeth on my way upstream so that I could tell you if things were well there. Joseph tells me that the garden is beautiful and the house has been closed and kept safe. Everything is ready for your return.”

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 upward. 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 calloused 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 favor 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.

John had thought in the first months of his marriage that he would go insane, waiting for the sun to set and the children to sleep so that he could take Suckahanna into his arms. Then he was glad that the autumn season made the nights longer, and that the cold weather drove the families of the village indoors earlier and earlier. The children would be rolled together in a thick rug on their sleeping platform, the fire at the center of the house would glow with a warm light and fill the little house with hot smoke, and in the darkness and warmth Suckahanna would enfold him and hold him in her mouth, in her body, until he ached with the urgency of his desire and then finally found the rush and release of his passion, as she closed her eyes and slid into her own joy.