“Robert will have to speed the sale of Chastleton now to pay off the moneylenders,” Thomas said, for although he had contributed to paying Robert’s fine, as had I, we had also had to turn to the usurers. He strode across the parlor to warm himself on the meager fire. “Jones is happy to allow him to have use of the house for a little while longer, which would save him having to return to live here with you, dear Anne.” He smiled sympathetically. “I imagine that would suit the two of you ill.”

“This is Robert’s home,” I said stiffly, “and he is always welcome here.” But inside I seethed because Robbie was growing like a strong young tree, needing new clothes and shoes all the time, eating like a gannet whilst I picked at food like a sparrow. The rest of us went cold and hungry to feed him whilst his own father sacrificed us all for his high-flown principles.

“If only Robert were safe from attaching himself to other foolish plots that can only end in disaster,” I said, twisting my hands together. “I cannot believe he will let this rest.”

Thomas sat down opposite me. I had not offered him wine this time for we had none. “He is passionate in wanting better treatment for his fellow believers,” he said mildly. “The queen’s attitude is harsh; all he wishes—as do I—is freedom to worship without persecution.”

“Attempting to overthrow the government is no way to achieve that,” I said. Bitterness rose in me and burst out no matter how hard I tried to stop it. “Surely you counseled him against the rebellion, Thomas? How are we to eat—how are we to live, when Robert brings upon us penalties that are so harsh? Robbie needs books and tutelage or his education will suffer. He needs toys and games, like a normal child. He needs a father!” The word exploded out of me.

The queen’s health worsened throughout that summer of 1601 and Robert, viewed as a leading papist by the government, was imprisoned again for the best part of the following year. With suspicion of the chief Catholic families rife one more, life was difficult for all of us, that intricate web of my relatives, the Throckmortons and Treshams and Wrights and Wintours. We wrote nothing but the most innocuous letters, one cousin to another, reporting news of children’s ailments and achievements, the yield from the orchards and herb gardens, the weather in Warwickshire and Northamptonshire. The queen’s spymasters, I thought, as I sealed my most recent letter to my sister, Muriel, would find nothing of interest here.

Robbie was my pride and joy, the only brightness in this dark world. He grew and thrived, requiring yet more new clothes more quickly than I could afford to pay for them, so I made them from the drapes and curtains in the house. Ashby was falling down around us but we were happy enough through that summer; I employed a tutor for my grandson and paid him by selling off the last of my jewels.