A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  All three stories of Chatsworth were now completed, and Bess knew nothing in the north could compare with it. Sheffield Castle, of course, was larger, with far more servants and costlier furnishings handed down through generations of Talbots, but Chatsworth from top to bottom reflected Bess's impeccable taste.

  Once she was satisfied that her magnificent house was in order, her thoughts turned to her own wardrobe. She wanted to look spectacular for the wedding and outshine them all. She called her head seamstress to her solar and invited her mother and sister Jane, since they also would need new gowns.

  Bess examined a bolt of cloth of gold and another of silver tissue, but both were becoming so commonplace at Court, Bess shook her head. “No, I intend to wear my Persian sapphires and want something that will show them off to perfection.”

  “Your breasts will do that, darling,” her mother supplied.

  “I think I'd like a gown of sapphire blue, cut very low in front.”

  “Velvet or brocade, madam?” asked the seamstress.

  “Both are too heavy for summer. I think taffeta; it rustles and whispers so deliciously.”

  “La, anyone would think you were out to catch a man, darling.”

  “I think Bess dresses for other women, mother. She always manages to make them look dowdy by comparison.”

  “Thank you for noticing, Jane,” Bess said, laughing.

  “Will I line the sleeves with silver tissue, Lady St. Loe? That is always so effective against a deep jewel-toned gown.”

  “No, I don't want hanging sleeves. I want puffed sleeves, slashed with cream silk.” Bess took up a sketch pad and a piece of charcoal. “I want the very latest fashion—let me show you.” Bess drew a framed collar that stood up in a flared semicircle behind the head. “I want this in cream color to show off my bright hair. Perhaps it could be edged in blue brilliants to match my sapphires.” Bess sighed. “If only I could sew real sapphires on my gowns, but only Elizabeth can afford such indulgences.”

  “Would you like sapphire or cream undergarments, madam?”

  Bess thought for a moment, then smiled her secret smile. “How about something totally unexpected, like jade green?”

  The seamstress blinked, but did not dare to suggest something less flamboyant. Instead, she changed the subject. “I have the chamois riding breeches ready, madam.”

  “Oh, wonderful, I'll try them on. Tell Cecily to fetch my tallest black riding boots and that tight little doublet with the brass buttons.”

  Bess donned the male attire and admired the ultrafeminine effect in the polished silver mirror.

  “Bess, you don't intend to actually wear those things in public, do you?” her mother asked with disapproval.

  “They will be absolutely perfect for riding astride, don't you see?” Bess asked, spreading her legs wide apart and running her hands over the soft buff suede that covered her hips.

  Her mother blanched. “Riding astride is something a lady would never do either.”

  “Who the devil said I was a lady? And where is it written that a woman cannot wear breeches and sit astride her own horse on her own land?”

  A knock on the solar door interrupted her. Bess opened it to find Robert Bestnay.

  “I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but Cromp is below and says he must speak with you immediately.”

  Bess ran lightly down the broad staircase that led to her office, unmindful of her unconventional attire. “James, is there some sort of trouble?”

  “There is, ma'am. A couple of days ago, Tim Pusey had trouble collecting some of your tenants' rents. I sent him back out with instructions to accept no excuses, but it has precipitated some sort of riot.”

  “Riot? Which tenants are giving trouble?”

  “It's the Chesterfield tenants, I'm afraid.”

  “Let's go,” Bess said decisively, taking up her riding gloves and crop from the hall table.

  At the stables a groom hurried to saddle her favorite mare, but she stopped him. “No, I'll ride Raven; he's faster. Don't put a sidesaddle on him.” She threw her leg across the black stallion, and before they were out of the stable yard, she urged Raven to a full gallop.

  A huge crowd had gathered in the village of Chesterfield, and bloody fighting had obviously erupted, but the arrival of the Earl of Shrewsbury had put a temporary stop to the rioting.

  “These are my tenants; what the devil business is it of yours?” she demanded.

  His eyes devoured the woman before him astride the stallion. He watched her hungrily as she dismounted, dug her fists into her hips, and planted her legs firmly apart in a stance of confrontation. “I'm making it my business. It's too close to my property of Bolsover for my liking; riots have a way of spreading if they're not nipped in the bud.”

  Bess addressed Tim Pusey, who was nursing a black and swollen eye. “What is this trouble about?”

  It was Shrewsbury who answered her. “The farmers who work Hardwick haven't had any wages for weeks, so they refuse to pay their rent.”

  “How do you know this before I do?” she demanded angrily.

  “Bess, there is little that happens north of the Trent that I don't know about.”

  She bristled that it should be so. “If they refuse to pay their rents, I'll clear the bloody land and put sheep on it!”

  “Bess, they have no money—they hardly have food.”

  She stared at him. Well, well, who would have guessed the great Earl of Shrewsbury has a compassionate nature? “I'll speak to my brother about this,” she informed him loftily.

  “That will do damned little to solve the problem. James Hardwick has allowed his property and landholdings to go to rack and ruin.”

  “Are you saying my brother is to blame for this trouble?” she demanded angrily, furious because what Shrewsbury said about James was all too true.

  “He's useless.” Shrewsbury's piercing blue eyes narrowed, challenging her to refute him.

  Bess bit her lip and acknowledged the truth of his words. “James doesn't have a good head for business. I make a better man than he does.”

  Shrewsbury's eyes traveled up her shapely legs and came to rest on her breasts thrusting beneath the male doublet. “You, Vixen, are all woman, and never more so than dressed in those provocative riding breeches.” He wanted her astride him, not her stallion.

  “Black brute,” she murmured, secretly pleased that he thought her provoking.

  Angry voices rose up around them. “Will you let me handle this? I could easily put down a riot by force—I have an armed guard of forty soldiers in my pay—but force isn't the answer here.” He didn't wait for her reply but raised his voice to the men milling about them. “There is a job for any man who wants one in my lead and coal mines.”

  Bess remounted her horse and added her voice to the earl's. “I, too, have coal to be mined, and sheep to be tended.” Suddenly, Bess remembered what it was like to have absolutely nothing, and her heart constricted. “I'll allow a week's hunting on any of my lands to fill your larders. If there's aught else you need, speak to my stewards.”

  The crowds gathered about Bess and the earl to offer their thanks. The mounted pair slowly walked their horses through the throng, uncomfortable with the display of gratitude.

  “Ride with me,” Shrewsbury said quietly.

  Bess urged Raven forward with her heels, and the two black stallions galloped abreast until the village was left behind and they entered a copse of beech trees. Their horses slowed, then stopped as the riders looked at each other. Shrewsbury urged his mount closer to hers until their stirrups touched. “Christ, I swear you're dressed this way to provoke my lust.”

  “I'd rather provoke your temper.”

  “Look at the effect you have on me, Vixen.” His hand indicated his swollen groin. “Can we not be secret lovers?”

  She lifted her chin. “It would take more than six stiff inches to tempt me to sin.”

  “Seven,” he corrected.

  They stared for a mom
ent, then both burst into laughter at the absurd things their sexual desire made them say to each other. Bess sobered. “I shall speak to my brother about Hardwick. Thank you for aiding me today.”

  “Bess, it is always my pleasure to serve you.” The double entendre gave him the last word.

  You are a witty devil when the spirit moves you. We could have such fun together, damn you to hellfire!

  THIRTY-TWO

  Since she was practically on the doorstep, Bess rode straight to Hardwick Manor, deciding not to go home and change her clothes first. The male attire would lend her authority for what she had to say to her brother.

  As she rode up to her old home, Bess realized how much she loved it, in spite of the fact that the small manor house had fallen into a dilapidated state. She reined in and sat staring at it, remembering how devastated she had been that day when they had been evicted. Her heart ached for its sad state of disrepair, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her, because she had transferred her affection to Chatsworth.

  She remembered the promise she had made to this house: I will be back to claim you! And she had kept that promise. But she had gotten it back for James because Hardwick was his birthright, and look what he'd done to it. Anger replaced her sadness and guilt. Why couldn't James be a man? Why couldn't he make the five hundred acres of Hardwick pay?

  She swung down from the saddle, tethered Raven to a tree, and strode up to the front door. She rapped with her riding crop, then walked in. Bess dismissed the servant who approached and spoke directly to her sister-in-law. “Where is he, Lizzie?”

  The young woman stared in disbelief at Bess's attire, then indicated the parlor.

  Bess swept into the room with weapons primed. “James Hardwick, while you sit here bending your elbow, your workers are rioting because they cannot pay their rents!”

  “Lady St. Loe,” he mocked, “welcome to my humble abode.”

  “Don't use that tone with me, you idle son of a bitch.”

  “You always did swear like a man; now you've taken to dressing like one. Are you growing a cock under those fine breeches, sister?”

  “If I were a man, I'd take a horsewhip to you. Now, explain what's happening at Hardwick.”

  The sneer dropped from James's face and was replaced by a sullen, morose look. “I can't make a go of it, Bess. I've tried and tried. Either the crops fail or the sheep die of foot rot. This spring I couldn't even sell my wool. They said it was inferior quality, and it was so tick-infested, I had to burn it.”

  “Dear God, James, you have to be a better manager. You know sheep must be dipped to keep them tick-free. You should know that successful farming takes hard work and good management. We as landowners have a responsibility to our tenants.”

  “I haven't collected rents from Hardwick's tenant farmers for months—I know they cannot pay,” he said defensively.

  “That's all very well, but what about those who work for you and rent from me? No wonder fighting broke out in Chesterfield, if my tenants have to pay rent when yours don't! Why haven't you done something about this mess?”

  “You're the one who's filthy rich. Why haven't you?” he asked bluntly.

  “In case you've forgotten, I spent the last eight months in the Tower.”

  “You likely deserved it; you always were a meddling bitch.”

  Bess took a menacing step toward him and raised her riding crop. Behind her she heard Lizzie scream. “Don't hurt him—James spent a month in Fleet prison for debt.”

  Bess swung around and stared at her young sister-in-law. Her shrewd glance swept back to James and her black eyes narrowed. “How did you get out?”

  “I borrowed the money to pay the debts.”

  “You mortgaged Hardwick?” Bess accused.

  When James nodded she stepped forward and brought her crop down across his shoulders.

  He snatched it from her hand. “How the hell else could I get money? Marry it, like you did?”

  “You bastard!” Bess snatched up the iron poker and advanced on him. He backed up in a hurry, knowing what her temper was like when riled. “Why didn't you come to me?” she demanded.

  “Pride, I suppose.”

  “You have no bloody pride. Look at this place!”

  “I've just borrowed some money to make repairs,” he said defensively.

  “Cancel the loan instantly. I'll pay for the repairs and fix the roof. I'll also loan you money to get more livestock and put in some crops.”

  “You've always wanted Hardwick, and this is your way of getting your grasping hands on it.”

  “James, you have horseshit for brains. Don't you realize I could buy the place cheap from your creditors?”

  He knew she spoke the truth and agreed to let her fix up the house and loan him money for livestock. But Bess had no idea that the moment she made the improvements, James intended to sell the accursed place and move to London.

  On the day of the double wedding, Bess decided they needed two carriages to take them to Sheffield, since she did not want her sapphire taffeta crushed and creased. Her mother, wearing blush pink, and her two young daughters, in identical white dresses with pink sashes, went in the first coach with her, and her three sons went in the second coach with Marcella and Jane.

  Syntlo was not with them. He was escorting Queen Elizabeth from Haddon Hall and had ridden over to Chatsworth last night to spend a few hours with his family. Bess had been appalled at his frail appearance. Not only was he stooped and gray, he was thin as a rail. All the women had fussed over him, feeding him and mixing him possets to increase his appetite, but he had assured them he was feeling quite well. Bess, however, decided to speak with him about taking a break from his duties, once this wedding was over.

  Bess's coach and the queen's arrived at precisely the same moment. Robin Dudley accompanied the queen on horseback. Bess took this opportunity to introduce her two younger daughters to the queen.

  Elizabeth looked down at the elder. “I am your godmother, and you are my namesake.”

  Young Elizabeth, almost eight, sank into a graceful curtsy and murmured, “Your Majesty, I am honored.”

  The queen looked at Bess. “This one is a Cavendish, all right.” The queen's eyes slid to the smaller of the pair with the bright red curls, who stuck out her tongue. “This one's a Hardwick, may God help her.”

  Bess rolled her eyes at Robin, who couldn't hide his amusement. Bess envied Queen Elizabeth her gown. It was white satin, embroidered all over in a diamond-shape pattern with jet beads. On the bodice, interspersed with the jet beads, were real diamonds. “You look magnificent, Your Majesty.”

  “But you are wearing the latest style, I see. That framed collar does glorious things for your hair. I shall adopt the fashion immediately.”

  Bess waited for the queen to precede her, but Elizabeth spoke up. “We shall go forward together to greet our hostess and see what the mother of the bride is wearing.”

  “I wager she'll be wearing Tudor green to honor you, Your Majesty,” Robin guessed.

  As Gertrude Talbot rushed down the castle steps to greet her queen, Elizabeth murmured, “Good God, that's not Tudor green! Whatever shade is it?”

  “Goose turd, I'd say,” Bess murmured behind her fan.

  The queen gave a great bark of laughter. “I miss your wit, Lady St. Loe, when you are absent from Court.”

  Gertrude Talbot shot Bess a look of loathing. She was a short, plump woman who would not have been attractive no matter what she wore. Making matters worse, her features were set in a condescending look that was permanent. “You honor us, Your gracious Majesty.”

  “I do indeed,” Elizabeth said rather caustically. “Why isn't the Old Man here to greet me?”

  Shrewsbury seemed to materialize from nowhere, his tall, dark figure casting its powerful shadow over them all in the brilliant morning sunlight. He sketched an elegant bow. “The two loveliest ladies in the realm; welcome to Sheffield.”

  “I refuse to share that honor
with Mistress Tits,” Elizabeth said crudely, and the four of them were transported back to the day they met at Hampton Court.

  Dudley laughed so hard, he choked, and the queen wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. Bess and Talbot joined in the laughter, but their amusement was a private thing, apart from the others. They had an intimacy that was secret and could never be shared.

  The Earl and Countess of Pembroke joined them, and all made their way to Sts. Peter and Paul's Church, which was on the grounds belonging to Sheffield.

  Syntlo joined Bess in the church, which bulged at its consecrated seams with noble guests. The child brides brought a lump to Bess's throat, and she offered up a quick prayer that the young girls were making happy marriages.

  The religious ceremony seemed to be over in the blinking of an eye, and the guests thronged from the church to partake of Sheffield Castle's hospitality. Large families were the fashion, and the nobility had brought all their children. Bess's sons and daughters immediately went off with Talbot's brood, together with the offspring of the Herberts, the Howards, and the Stuarts.

  The reception was on a lavish scale, comparable with anything the queen's Court ever put on. The banqueting chamber held a formal dining table that accommodated all sixty adult guests, while the young people sat at smaller tables. A liveried footman stood ready to serve behind every second chair.

  Bess had never seen so much silver plate all at one time. The price of the heavy sterling cutlery alone would have fed an entire town for a year. The paintings and the tapestries on the walls were of course priceless and had been handed down through generations of Talbots since medieval times. Bess tried not to stare, but to own such riches was almost beyond comprehension.