So it went throughout that autumn and winter until a year of mourning had passed and we gathered to remember George, on the tenth day of March, 1611. It is a Popish belief, much frowned upon by those not of our persuasion, and so we did it in darkness.

“We cannot wait longer or the Watch will have us,” said Richard Weston, only his face and hands showing in the faint candlelight in the parlor, a “parlor” in name only, for I had moved my bed into that room, my two youngest girls sharing it with me, and let my bedchamber to a sign painter for threepence a week.

“Something must have delayed him,” I said, moving toward the door and signaling the children to follow. I had wrapped them up against the cold of early March. Mary and Katherine had grown bickersome and pale since George’s death, Henry was very quiet although he did speak sometimes. Thomas had refused to join us but Barbara and John had been given permission to leave Baron Ellesmere’s house for the evening. I could not afford to send John to Oxford and he had gratefully accepted a position in the same household as his sister. There was a chance they would send him to study, if he proved himself useful and loyal to the Baron.

Mistress Bowdlery had asked to join our party, for her husband was in the same graveyard. Although not a Catholic, she was highly superstitious and had some notion that, if she begged near her husband’s grave, he might more likely hear and come to her aid. On my last visit to her house, I noticed that she had placed little bottles near every door and window.

“Witch bottles,” she had explained. “Urine and pins … keeps them out.” I hoped they would prove effective and stem the flow of misfortune she had suffered since her husband’s death.

Weston took the lead and we set off in somber procession for the churchyard. We had gone but five paces when I heard my name being called. A servant was waving after me. I went back and took the packet and note he carried and he left immediately; no reply was sought. The note was from Arthur. In it he expressed his deepest regret that he could not join us at George’s grave; the Prince had called for him without notice, but he did not want to delay giving me the enclosed. In the packet was a gold ring into which was pressed a small ruby. Engraved inside were the words, “May Fate Unite the Lovers.” He must have read George’s Will again, for now Fate had replaced Time, and that made me uncomfortable anew, for was Fate not fickle where Time was relentless?