“Indeed, you have not spoken to call it off! And now you intend to forget about me and all that is yours in this house?”

“I cannot give you an allowance, if that is what you mean, for I have debts.”

“Debts greater than those you owe our children? Not to mention the promises you gave to a dying man?” I asked. Arthur did not reply but twisted his cap in his hand, letting the long plume on it flow through his fingers with every revolution. He spoke without raising his eyes.

“If we meet in public it will be as if I do not know you. I will not write or see you again.” He hesitated as if to say more, perhaps of how he regretted his treatment of me, how sorry he was that he could not behave with honor, that he would miss watching his children grow, but in the end he just left. He talked with kindness to the urchin holding his horse, but not to me.

I ran out and grabbed his arm, not caring who saw or heard me.

“Who will teach your son to ride, to handle a sword, to become a gentleman? Your girls adore you! They squeal with delight when you appear and beg to be in your arms. Mary needs medicine and doctors for her cough. You would ride away from all the love that is yours in this house because there is a moment of gossip about the Countess of Essex? There is always prattle about her; it has nothing to do with me. We are your family.”

My words hit the soft point behind his newly donned armor. He held my shoulders and looked directly into my eyes, a tear falling each time he blinked. He leaned forward and I lifted my mouth but he kissed my cheek, quickly turned away and swung up into the saddle.

I ran along, clutching at his foot, but he treated me as any beggar and steered a careful route along the narrow row. I knew that this would be the last time I saw him there.

I watched as he disappeared and then for a long time afterward, jostled by all who passed. Finally, I turned and tried for home as if struggling against the weight of the gray Thames rushing me out to sea. I think Mistress Bowdlery found me. She pulled me from my knees and dragged me home. I curled before the fireplace, a tiny warm patch in the cold room, half in the ashes, half on hard boards. Dust to dust. Would tears, mixed with wood ash, form lye to burn my skin and make soap of me? Then I would serve a purpose. Soap with which to wash my children even if I could not feed them.