“It looks so – rooted!” Elizabeth found the word at last. “As if it had been here forever.”

A brief gleam of pride crossed John’s face. “That is what I have learned this year at least,” he said. “I have learned how to make a garden new-made look as if it was there when Eden was planted. The trick of it is to put things too close, and bear the work of moving them before they get overcrowded. Also you have to take a risk of moving things which are really too big to be disturbed. Digging a wide trench around the roots. Those trees now-” He broke off. His wife was smiling at him but she was not listening. “I have found a way of moving trees so they don’t wither,” he finished. “But it’s of little interest except to another gardener.”

“It means that you have given me a beautiful garden which I will treasure,” she said. She came into his arms and held him close. “And I thank you for it. I see now why the little patch at Meopham was not enough. I never thought of you making a cottage garden like you make grand gardens, my John, but you have given me a little beauty here.”

He smiled at her pleasure and bent his head and kissed her. Her lips were still soft and warm and he thought with rising desire that tonight they would bed in a new room and tomorrow wake to look out on the great parkland of Hatfield, and their new life would begin.

“We’ll see these trees grow strong,” he said. “And we’ll plant the chestnut sapling at the bottom of the garden and sit in its shade when we are old.”

She nestled a little closer. “And we’ll bide at home,” she said firmly.

John rested his cheek against her warm cap. “When we’re old,” he promised, disarmingly.

The very next day the earl himself came down to visit the Tradescants in their new cottage. Elizabeth was flustered and overawed by the grandness of the pony carriage with one footman driving, and another hanging on the back. She came to the gate and curtseyed and stammered her thanks. But John opened the gate and went out to stand at the carriage door as to an intimate friend.

“Are you ill?” he asked Cecil quietly.

Cecil’s face was yellow and the lines of pain were deeper than ever. “No worse than usual,” he replied.

“Is it your bones?”

“My belly this time,” he said. “I am sick as a dog, John. But I can’t stop work yet. I have a plan to reform the king’s finances despite himself. If I can get him to agree then I can sell the whole scheme to Parliament, and hand over to them the farming of benefits in return for a proper wage for the king.”

John blinked. “You want the king to be paid by Parliament? To be its servant?”

Cecil nodded. “Better than this endless haggling, year after year, when they demand that he change his favorites and he demands more money. Anything is better than that. You have to be a king rich in charm to survive holding out an annual begging bowl, and this king is not as the old queen.”

“Can you not rest and come back to it later?” John asked urgently.

The heavy-lidded eyes looked at him. “Setting up as apothecary, John?”

“Can you not rest?”

Cecil flinched as he stretched out his hand to his man, and John saw that even that small gesture cost him pain. He took the hand as gently as he would hold Baby J’s while he slept. Unconsciously, he put his other hand on top of it and felt how cool were the fingers and how sluggish the pulse.

“Do I look so sick?”

John hesitated.

There was a gleam of a smile on Cecil’s face. “Come, John,” he said in a half-whisper. “You always prided yourself on telling me the truth; don’t turn courtier now.”

“You do look very very sick,” John said, his voice very low.

“Sick to death?”

John snatched a quick glance at his master’s heavy-lidded eyes and saw that he wanted a true answer to his question.

“I have no skills, my lord, but I would think so.”

Cecil frowned slightly and John tightened his grip on the thin cold hand.

“I’ve so much more to do,” the Secretary of State said.

“Look to yourself first,” John urged him, and then heard himself whisper, “please, my lord. Look to yourself first.”

Cecil leaned forward and laid his cheek against John’s warm face. “Ah, John,” he said softly. “I wish I had some of your strength.”

“I wish to God I could give it to you,” John whispered.

“Drive with me,” the earl commanded. “Drive round with me and tell me what is planted and how it will be, even though neither of us will be here to see it. Tell me how it will be in a hundred years when we will both be dead and gone. Hale or sick, John, this garden will outlive us both.”

Tradescant clambered into the carriage and sat beside his master, one arm along the back of the seat as if he would protect him from the jolting movement. Elizabeth, forgotten at the gate of her new house, watched them both go.

“You have made me a velvet setting for my jewel,” Cecil said with quiet pleasure as the carriage moved slowly down the avenue of new-planted trees. “We have done well together, John, for a pair of youngsters learning our trades.”

May 1612

Cecil was dying in the great curtained bed in the master chamber of his new fine house. Outside his door, the household staff pretended to go about their work in a hushed silence, hoping to hear the muttered colloquy of the doctors. Some wanted to send him to Bath to take the waters – his last chance of health. Some were for leaving him in his bed to rest. Sometimes, when his door opened, the servants could hear the harsh laboring of his breath and see him propped up on the rich embroidered pillows, the brightness of their spring colors a mockery of his yellowing skin.

John Tradescant, weeping like a woman, was deep digging in the vegetable garden, digging without much purpose, in a frenzy of activity as if his energy and effort could put heart in the earth, could put the heart back into his master.

At midday he abruptly left his vegetable bed and marched determinedly through the three courts on the west of the house, up the allée, past the mount where the paths were rimmed with yellow primroses, out into the woodland side of the garden. The ground was a sea of blue as if the whole wood was deep in flood. John kneeled and picked bluebells with steady concentration and did not stop until he had an armful. Then he went to the house, careless of the mud dropping off his boots, up the stairs where his likeness in wood still stepped blithely out of the newel post, up to the master bedroom. A housemaid stopped him at the door to the anteroom. He would not be allowed further in.

“Take these, and show them to him,” he said.

She hesitated. Flowers in the house were for strewing on the floor, or for a posy to wear at the belt ot hatband. “What would he want with them?” she demanded. “What would a dying man want with bluebells?”

“He’d like to see them,” John urged her. “I know he would. He likes bluebells.”

“I’ll have to give them to Thomas,” she said. “I’m not allowed in, anyway.”

“Then give them to Thomas,” John pressed her. “What harm can it do? And I know it would please him.”

She was stubborn. “I don’t see why.”

John gestured helplessly. “Because when a man is going into darkness it helps him to know that he leaves some light behind!” he exclaimed. “Because when a man is facing his own winter it is good to know that there will still be springs and summers. Because he is dying… and when he sees the bluebells he will know that I am still here, outside, and that I picked him some flowers. He will know that I am still here, just outside, digging in his garden. He will know that I am here, still digging for him.”

The look she turned on him was pure incomprehension. “But Mr. Tradescant! Why should that help him?”