“It is true that I was content to be a church papist whilst Catherine lived,” Robert said. “I did nothing to further our Catholic cause.” He did not look up from the wine that he was swirling in his glass. He had already had far too much of it but I was not going to forbid him more. This was the first time in years that he had spoken to me; perhaps his father’s ghost stood at my shoulder, reminding me to stay quiet and calm.

“You are in grief,” I said. “It is natural that you should feel this way for you loved Catherine so dearly, as she loved you. But you have not failed our cause, Robert, or your God. It cannot always be a fight. Sometimes we must be content to bide a little and wait for our time to come around again.”

I might as well not have spoken. I could see it even as the words fell from my mouth. Catherine had been Robert’s guiding star. She had steadied him and now he was adrift. Perhaps if his father had been alive now matters might have been different. Robert would have turned to William and listened to him. Or perhaps it would have made no difference at all. Certainly I could not reach him.

“How did the garden come to be on fire?” I asked him when some moments had passed and I realized that he was not going to respond to what I had said. “It was so beautiful, Robert—a beautiful memorial to her! What happened?”

Once again I saw the unbearable pain in his eyes. “I could not look upon it,” he said simply. “It would always remind me of her. She was lost in the most sudden and painful of ways—it was right that the garden should be cut back also at the height of its beauty.”

“You destroyed it?” I stared at him in shock. “You set it on fire?”

Again he did not reply.

I swallowed the tears that blocked my throat. “You were angry to have lost her,” I said. “You needed to vent that anger on something or someone.”

He shrugged as though it did not matter. “I think I shall always be angry now,” he said. “Whatever the case, I shall never come to Knightstone again.” He put down his empty glass. “I am for London,” he said. “There is nothing here for me now.” He stood up as though preparing to go in that instant.

“But Catherine is not even buried yet!” I cried, putting out a hand to him. “And what of your son—what of Robbie? He will need you more than ever now he has lost his mother!”

Robert looked down on the sleeping baby and his expression did soften a little. “I cannot give the boy what he needs,” he said. “You must have him, Mother—take him to Ashby and care for him there.” He looked at me, and all the softness had fled. My heart shrank a little to see his expression. “You always wanted a son you could mold as you wished,” he said bitterly. “Now at last you have one.”