“Elizabeth shall stay in bed until she is well again,” he said. “We were lucky not to lose her. It was a hard birth for her, and she was hurt inside. She shall rest as long as she wants. And we won’t be calling the child George or Robert or James or Charles or Henry or David. He’ll be John, after my grandfather, and after my father, and me.”
Gertrude flounced toward the door. “It’s very dull!” she exclaimed. “You should save your name for another child. The first child should be named in such a way as to encourage a sponsor!”
John’s smile never wavered but his face was dark with regret. “There won’t be another child,” he said. “There will only ever be this one. So we will name him as we wish, and he will be John Tradescant, and I will teach him how to garden.”
Gertrude paused. “Not another child?” she asked. “How can you say such a thing?”
He nodded. “I called the apothecary from Gravesend. He said that she could not manage another birth, so we shall only ever have this, our son.”
Gertrude came back into the room and looked again into the cradle, shocked out of her normal irritability. “But John,” she said softly. “To have to pin all your hopes on just one child! No one to bear your name but just the one! And everything to be lost if you lose him!”
John rubbed his face as if he would rub away his scowl of pain. He leaned over the cradle. The baby’s sleeping fists were as tiny as rosebuds, his dark hair a little crown of fluff around his head. A tiny pulse like a vulnerable heartbeat at the center of his skull. John felt a deep passion of tenderness so powerful that his very bones seemed to melt inside him.
“It’s as well I am used to growing rarities,” he murmured. “I have not a dozen little seedlings to watch; I shall never have more than this one. I just have this one precious little bud. I shall nurse him up as if he was a new flower, a rarity.”
January 1610
“It is done.” Robert Cecil found Tradescant on his knees in the Theobalds knot garden. “I was looking for you. The king wants to call Theobalds his own this year. We are to leave.”
John rose to his feet and rubbed the cold earth from his hands.
“What are you doing?” the earl asked.
“Relaying the white stones,” John said. “The frost disturbs them, throws up dirt and spoils the pattern.”
“Leave it,” he ordered peremptorily. “The king’s gardeners can worry about it now. He wants it, he has pressed me for it, he hinted a hundred thousand different ways, and Rochester pushed him on every time he might have stopped. I’ve fended him off for three years but now I’ve given it to him, God damn it. And now he’s happy, and Rochester is happy, and I have Hatfield.”
Tradescant nodded, his eyes on his master’s face. “You shall make me a splendid garden there,” Robert Cecil said rapidly, as if he were almost afraid of John’s calm silence. “You shall go abroad and buy me all sorts of rarities. How are the chestnuts coming along? We will take them with us. You shall take anything you want from the gardens here, take them with us and we shall start again at Hatfield…”
He broke off. Still John watched him, saying nothing.
The most powerful man in England, second only to the king himself, took two hasty steps away from his gardener and then turned back to face him. “John, I could weep like a babe,” he confessed.
John slowly nodded. “So could I.”
The earl held out his arms and John stepped into them and the two men, the one so slight and twisted, the other so broad and strong, wrapped each other in a deep firm hug. Then they broke apart, Cecil rubbing his eyes on the sleeve of his rich jacket while John cleared his throat with a harsh cough. John offered his arm and Cecil took help and leaned on his man. The two of them walked from the knot garden side by side.
“The bath house!” the earl said quietly. “I’ll never manage anything like it at
Gertrude flounced toward the door. “It’s very dull!” she exclaimed. “You should save your name for another child. The first child should be named in such a way as to encourage a sponsor!”
John’s smile never wavered but his face was dark with regret. “There won’t be another child,” he said. “There will only ever be this one. So we will name him as we wish, and he will be John Tradescant, and I will teach him how to garden.”
Gertrude paused. “Not another child?” she asked. “How can you say such a thing?”
He nodded. “I called the apothecary from Gravesend. He said that she could not manage another birth, so we shall only ever have this, our son.”
Gertrude came back into the room and looked again into the cradle, shocked out of her normal irritability. “But John,” she said softly. “To have to pin all your hopes on just one child! No one to bear your name but just the one! And everything to be lost if you lose him!”
John rubbed his face as if he would rub away his scowl of pain. He leaned over the cradle. The baby’s sleeping fists were as tiny as rosebuds, his dark hair a little crown of fluff around his head. A tiny pulse like a vulnerable heartbeat at the center of his skull. John felt a deep passion of tenderness so powerful that his very bones seemed to melt inside him.
“It’s as well I am used to growing rarities,” he murmured. “I have not a dozen little seedlings to watch; I shall never have more than this one. I just have this one precious little bud. I shall nurse him up as if he was a new flower, a rarity.”
January 1610
“It is done.” Robert Cecil found Tradescant on his knees in the Theobalds knot garden. “I was looking for you. The king wants to call Theobalds his own this year. We are to leave.”
John rose to his feet and rubbed the cold earth from his hands.
“What are you doing?” the earl asked.
“Relaying the white stones,” John said. “The frost disturbs them, throws up dirt and spoils the pattern.”
“Leave it,” he ordered peremptorily. “The king’s gardeners can worry about it now. He wants it, he has pressed me for it, he hinted a hundred thousand different ways, and Rochester pushed him on every time he might have stopped. I’ve fended him off for three years but now I’ve given it to him, God damn it. And now he’s happy, and Rochester is happy, and I have Hatfield.”
Tradescant nodded, his eyes on his master’s face. “You shall make me a splendid garden there,” Robert Cecil said rapidly, as if he were almost afraid of John’s calm silence. “You shall go abroad and buy me all sorts of rarities. How are the chestnuts coming along? We will take them with us. You shall take anything you want from the gardens here, take them with us and we shall start again at Hatfield…”
He broke off. Still John watched him, saying nothing.
The most powerful man in England, second only to the king himself, took two hasty steps away from his gardener and then turned back to face him. “John, I could weep like a babe,” he confessed.
John slowly nodded. “So could I.”
The earl held out his arms and John stepped into them and the two men, the one so slight and twisted, the other so broad and strong, wrapped each other in a deep firm hug. Then they broke apart, Cecil rubbing his eyes on the sleeve of his rich jacket while John cleared his throat with a harsh cough. John offered his arm and Cecil took help and leaned on his man. The two of them walked from the knot garden side by side.
“The bath house!” the earl said quietly. “I’ll never manage anything like it at
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