Ten

Anne Catesby

Knightstone Manor
December 1597

William and I paid another visit to our son and daughter-in-law after their second child was born. He was a boy, called Robert after his father, a brother for two-year-old William already in the nursery. My husband had been pleased with the compliment of his first grandson being named for him and it felt appropriate: the eldest son of the eldest son who would one day inherit the Catesby dignity, name and estates. I pushed from my mind the memory of another child called William, my own firstborn, dead before his third birthday, but I said prayers for his namesake.

“I hope for a daughter next,” Catherine wrote, “though I know I must not be greedy. We have been so blessed. Little Robbie is strong and sturdy, and as dark and handsome as his father. He is only nine months old yet already pulls himself up to stand and is determined to grasp after anything he wants...”

That I could well believe. He sounded just like his father. But I was relieved that the baby was not as frail as William, who was prone to coughs and chills, and that he had inherited Robert’s tenacity. God willing, that would see him past all the illnesses and dangers of childhood.

William and I set off to Berkshire in good spirits and made a quick journey of it. The roads were dry and not too dusty, for winter had been mild so far that year, and the carriage comfortable enough to feel only every second jolt rather than each individual one. Knightstone Manor had been much improved in the two years since we had last been there; it was extravagantly and tastefully furnished, and Catherine’s garden was entirely delightful, a series of pools, waterfalls, terraces and woodland dells that even out of season had a serene beauty, with arches of entwined holly and ivy, and carpets of snowdrops beneath the trees. I could not help but wonder at the cost of all this magnificence but kept quiet on the subject.

“I see you have achieved your grand design of a winter garden,” I said to Catherine, as we embraced. “It looks glorious.”

Catherine was gratified. “Winter can be a joyful season,” she murmured. “I wished to celebrate that.”

We duly admired our grandson William first since he was the elder and as fair as little Robert was dark, and then cooed over baby Robbie, who was indeed a delightful child, bright and curious, full of promise, and the image of his father.

And into this happy gathering came the serpent in Eden, my sister Muriel.

Robert had mentioned casually at dinner the previous night that he had invited Sir Thomas to visit the following day. William forestalled my reaction by appearing delighted with the news and in the light of his approval I could scarcely have complained, though of course I sulked quietly to think of my brother-in-law pushing in once again where I did not want him. And when his carriage arrived at the door it was Muriel who descended first, looking around and declaring herself delighted finally to see the house and garden that Thomas had spoken so highly of.