“It is a good likeness,” said Barbara, politely. Facing it was a miniature of Robert Carr, Lady Anne’s father, who had died a few years previously. Anne closed the locket and pulled from her sleeve a letter, much crumpled. “This, from my mother, says all I find it hard to.”

16th of August, 1632, Chiswick

Dearest beloved Anne,

This letter I leave in the safekeeping of my legal secretary to give to you after my death. Although it is not my hand that writes—I can no longer hold a pen—these are my words, the last you will receive from me.

You will have been told that you were given your name to please the late Queen, Anna of Denmark, but this is a falsehood. I had always thought to call my first daughter Margaret, after my little sister who was taken to God at a tender age. But I named you Anne in memory of my dearest friend. You have not heard of her, except perhaps some false slander that came to your ears while unprotected by me. She was my truest friend, accused of many things, and hanged. The three youngest of her orphaned children were taken in by her sister and the eldest three managed as best they could. What little money I have, I send to them, but none will visit me.

Anne was bold, her wits were quick and leaned toward originality; she was courageous and loyal to the end. Although it is true that we attempted to kill a man who tried to destroy my honor and keep me from your father, we failed. Her manservant, Richard Weston, and the Lieutenant of the Tower threw away our poisons. They both confessed this, before they were hanged, but only that which suited Lord Coke came out at the trials. He relied on the prattling of James Franklin, apothecary, who said anything to spin out his own life a little longer. Franklin was executed on the day you were born. What bitter pleasure I felt when Lord Coke fell from the King’s grace soon after Anne’s trial, for his cruel and inflexible methods and the arrogance of his self-belief.

I kept silent when I was arrested, in the hope that Anne could be saved. After she was hanged, I confessed to take blame away from your father, for at the time I did not care whether I lived or died. The King sought your father’s downfall and through me he achieved it.

My only joy since Anne’s death has been in you, and I wish you to hold to your heart what I now write, for this lesson I learned the hardest way.