We had visited Robert and Catherine at Chastleton House three months after they had wed. The invitation had surprised me, for I had thought that once Robert was free of our oversight, he would be in no hurry to see us again. Catherine however had excellent manners and had clearly pushed him into inviting us and the visit went smoothly. William had impressed upon me the need to admire everything and criticize nothing; this was not so difficult in the end, for Robert was in an expansive mood, doting on his wife and proud of his position as master of the house. With wealth and good standing, a cellar full of wine and a deer park full of game, he seemed very content. The estate was well maintained since William had had in place an excellent tenant during the later years of his widowed mother’s ownership and Robert had not yet had long enough to undo all the good work. But as William said, this sort of observation was exactly why Robert and I always ended at daggers drawn.

“You forget,” my husband said, “that you were the one who believed that marrying Catherine would be a steadying influence on Robert. At least allow him the chance to prove you correct.”

I sighed now, remembering, for I knew that William was right. I was often too quick and too harsh to judge, but equally I knew that Robert had recently written to his father, asking for money. Some things did not change and I shuddered to imagine that he might have run through Catherine’s dowry within a year of their marriage.

“We would be so glad if you would join us next month for the May Day celebrations,” Catherine’s letter continued. “We shall be at the manor at Knightstone, which is my favorite of all places, so small and charming and altogether beautiful. Did I mention in my last letter that I am creating a winter garden there, with terraces, and pretty little arbors and ponds? Robert’s godfather is advising me, for he plans a marvelous design himself at Lyveden...”

I had no idea what a winter garden was, but I put the letter down, disquiet stirring within me. It was evident from Catherine’s words that Thomas Tresham was welcomed in Robert’s home more frequently than we were. Perhaps he did not even require the formal invitation that I had to wait for. I thought of the letter I had received from Catherine after her name day celebrations, mentioning the glorious embroidered taffeta that Sir Thomas had sent her from London as a gift. Jealousy tasted bitter in my mouth as it always did when I recognized the closeness that existed between Robert and his uncle, a connection I could never achieve. And now Thomas was inveigling himself into Catherine’s good graces as well.

I already knew about Thomas’s grand plans at his own manors in Northamptonshire. At Rushden, his main seat, he was building a folly of surpassing grandeur. He had told us that its triangular nature reflected the Holy Trinity but I thought that all the allegories and puns incorporated within its walls were really intended to reflect his own cleverness. At Lyveden he spoke of creating a lodge and moated garden; all this when he had vast debts from his determined recusancy and would only incur more. I pitied his boys, Thomas and Lewis, inheriting nothing but empty coffers and grand designs, and his daughters scrabbling for dowries amongst the brick dust.