“Find me,” Catherine seemed to be saying. “Help me. Tell my story.”

Twelve

Anne Catesby

Ashby St. Ledgers, Northamptonshire
1598

The summer of the year 1598 was so hot it was hard to bear. There was a drought, the earth turned yellow and brown, the leaves wilted on the trees and not a breath of cool breeze could bring relief nor did a drop of rain water the parched ground. The air suffocated like a blanket. Sickness bloated the land as though the heat encouraged it to flourish. William took to his bed, complaining of sweats and fever, and a pain in the chest. I mixed for him the bitter aromatic juice of horehound, sweetened it with honey and milk and prayed hard for his recovery. For a little while it seemed he did pick up a little, but on the seventh day the fever took hold with an even tighter grip and by the time the clock struck midday, he was dead. We had been wed for five and twenty years. I missed him, my steady, thoughtful and companionable spouse. His loss left an enormous space in my life for I had loved him very dearly. Yet my faith—our shared faith—did give me comfort, for I knew that death was not the end and that William would surely have eternal life. Masses were said for his soul and I lit candles in his memory and thought of him and little William together at last.

I sent Byram, our steward, to Chastleton to tell Robert. William had, I knew, left a lifetime’s interest in Ashby Manor to me so there would be no change in that respect, but in every other way things were different now. Robert was the head of the family and, I was sure, would be certain to demand some of Ashby’s income for himself. I had no wish to quarrel with him. I wished we could both mourn together for we had both loved William; we had that much in common at least. But Robert, when he came, was distant and formal, austere in his mourning black and his manner as cold as the grave itself.

“My condolences on your loss, madam,” he said. We stood next to one another at the graveside but we were many miles apart, so small a family, yet unable to come together. It felt as though without William to bind us, we were drifting away from each other more than we had ever done. I remember the heat of that day and how inappropriate it felt when I was so chilled inside.

Robert did not linger at Ashby, being anxious to return to Chastleton where his son William was ailing once more. Catherine had not accompanied him for this reason but she had sent the kindest letter, expressing all the sentiments that Robert could not bring himself to say.

“My dearest Lady Catesby, dearest mother,” she wrote, “my heart aches for you. I long to give you comfort at this terrible time. Know that I have you in my thoughts and prayers and that we shall meet again one day soon in happier times.”