York, October 1644 Before I’ve even mustered the courage to knock, the door to the townhouse flings open.
I drop my hand. “It is me, John Falmouth,” I say and wince at how loud my voice carries into the night. My greeting falters when I look up and notice the young woman standing before me. Her smooth countenance and black velvet gown lined with pearls leave me conscious of how dirty I am from the week spent travelling to York. “I am here to see Mr George Strong,” I finish once I’ve gathered myself.
Her mouth opens in surprise and I swallow down my fear that my welcome has been withdrawn. George has weathered the years well since we last met. I’m sure I’m not the only one of his old friends to have reached out in the hopes of a position.
“My husband died a month ago. A sudden illness,” she explains when I step back. Her firm grip saves me from stumbling down the wide marble steps.
“I am sorry for
