The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. . It’s artificially chance. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.
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