The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

THE SOLACE

The Earl of Somerset was no longer a young man; it was nearly thirty years since he had been found guilty of murder by his peers; yet there were times when it seemed even longer. Looking back, it appeared to him that he had been three people: an ambitious young man looking for a place at Court; the most powerful man in England; and a man who had learned to understand himself and life, and had contrived to make something worthwhile out of disaster.

It astonished him often that the last phase of his life had been the happiest; was that the reward of a successful life? To have learned one’s lessons; to have come to an appreciation of the true blessings the world had to offer?

He believed so; and when he was with his daughter—so like her mother and yet how different!—he was content.

Yet even after he had received his full pardon, life had been uneasy.

Frances had gone often to Court, but she had not been happy. She did not enjoy the glory under Charles and Henrietta Maria that she had known when James and Anne were on the throne. Who was this Frances Howard? was a constant question. Wife of the one-time favorite who had fallen from grace; daughter of the Earl of Suffolk and his Countess of whose reputation for fraud all were aware; great-niece of that old rogue Northampton who had died in time to save himself from scandal; and worst of all—a self-confessed murderess.

She was angry; she was frustrated; she was melancholy; but she could not stay away from Whitehall.

Back and forth to Court; growing older, sullen, always seeking what could never be hers; resenting that growing love between her daughter and husband, who had found happiness together.

There was no happiness for Frances. Fears had come with the gnawing pain which at first she ignored; but eventually it would not be ignored. More insistent it grew until it dominated her life.

There were no more visits to Court; there was only pain that grew worse with every day.

Sometimes she lay on her bed and screamed in her agony; sometimes she lost consciousness; at others she would wander in her mind and those who attended her would hear her say: “So you are there … mocking me? You are telling me you suffered such pains. Is this your revenge, Tom Overbury?”

It was a relief when at last her pains were no more. She had lived thirty-nine turbulent years; and sixteen had elapsed since she had faced her judges.

But when she was no longer there the memories began to fade. The days were happier; there was the girl nearly seventeen, a lovely blooming creature with a deep affection for the father who, because of their exile, had been closer to her than parents often were.

He was poor by comparison with what he once had been, for his only possessions were now a house at Chiswick and a small income.

“It is enough for our needs,” Anne told him; and he rejoiced in his daughter.

He would have been completely happy if she could have remained in innocence, but there had been documents and books written about the case of Sir Thomas Overbury and it was inevitable that one day something of this nature must fall into Anne’s hands.

He found her one day staring before her, the book having slipped to the floor; and, seeing the horror in her face, he knew what she had been reading.

“My darling,” he said, “you must not let it grieve you.”

“My mother … did that!”

“She was young; she had been too indulged.”

How explain Frances Howard to her daughter?

He thanked God that Anne was a sensible girl. After the first shock, after they had talked together and he had told her the story as he had known it, she was able to put it out of her mind. He was innocent and her guilty mother was dead. It was because of what had happened that they lived here together away from the Court. It was past; no amount of grieving could change what had happened.

He was glad that she knew because he had lived with the fear that one day she would meet someone who would tell her the story. It was better that she should hear it from him.

She was growing into a very lovely woman, with the features of her mother, made more beautiful by the kindliness of her expression, the modesty of her manners and the virtue which shone from her. He knew that he should not let her remain shut away from the world. It would have been pleasant to keep her to himself for she asked no other life. But he loved her too well.

He had one or two friends who had remained constant throughout his exile, and they helped Anne to see a little of society; but it was with reluctance that she left him to go on an occasional visit and she always returned to him with pleasure. It was during one of these visits that she met Lord William Russell; the attraction was mutual and immediate; and William, eldest son of the Earl of Bedford, was certain that the only wife he would have was Anne daughter of the disgraced Earl of Somerset and his notorious Countess.

One could not expect life to go on in the same gentle groove for ever. Robert knew now that this was the end of his cherished companionship with his daughter; she would either marry Russell or if she did not, spend the rest of her life grieving for him. It certainly seemed that she would not have Russell for Bedford had angrily declared that there should be no marriage between his heir and the daughter of such parents.

Bedford stormed about the Court and the old scandal was revived. Anne had lost her gaiety and that was more than Robert could bear; he knew that he would give everything he had to buy her her happiness, and would even be prepared never to see her again if that were necessary.

William Russell was a determined young man who had no intention of giving up the woman he loved, and being a friend of the King soon enlisted his sympathy and that of the young Queen Henrietta Maria. It was difficult for Bedford to refuse a request from the King to be kind to the lovers, and at last he agreed, but on a condition which, knowing Robert’s poverty, he did not believe would be complied with.

His son’s wife must have a dowry of twelve thousand pounds. That, he declared, was a reasonable suggestion when she was marrying into one of the most important families.

Anne was desolate. “He knows it is impossible,” she mourned. “That is why he has set this condition.”

Twelve thousand pounds! mused Robert. By selling everything he had perhaps he could raise that sum. It would mean he would live the rest of his life in poverty; but he was ready to buy Anne’s happiness on any terms.

When the money was raised Bedford had no more excuses and so the Lady Anne Carr was married to Lord William Russell and although he knew that their intimate companionship was over, that was one of the happiest days of Robert’s life.

He had had little possessions of his own for as long as he lived, which was for eight years after Anne’s marriage. They were happy years, for he was often with his daughter and he saw her the mistress of great estates and, what was more important, a happy wife and mother. Often when his grandchildren climbed on to his knee they would make the eternal plea: “Grandfather, tell me a story.”

And he told them stories of the splendor of Courts and the exploits of knights; but there was one story he never told; and he trusted that by the time they heard it—which in course of time they must—they would see it as a tragedy of figures become shadowy with time, and that they would not judge too harshly the grandfather whom they had known in the days of their childhood.