Arbella

by Georgina Lee

  Apparently my aunt looked forward to my visits and usually had an array of toys and games for me. She was not averse to getting on the floor with me to play skittles and I sat on her lap to practise my letters. All the while, my grandmother would be working steadily at her sewing, by the window, but I could feel her eyes on us all the time. Sometimes I looked at them both when I thought they would not notice. It was interesting for me to compare their looks and manners as they were very different, but my earliest memories of them are still vivid.

  My aunt was tall and beautiful. Her clothes were very fine, but worn, and in parts, heavily darned. Inside her chambers there was always a strange smell of stale air and women, their presence visible everywhere from the discarded sewing to the dainty silk slippers that were warming in a neat row round the fire. I remember longing to finger the pretty coral, jet and silver rosaries that were kept on the table, but these were Papist objects and forbidden to me. A large crucifix hung on the wall, beneath her prie-dieu, where she spent hours on her knees in prayer. In the centre of the chamber there was a sort of platform where she sat on a grand oak chair underneath a silk canopy.

  I suppose this was to mark her as a queen, different from everyone, and she sat there to receive visitors. Her ladies did not allow anyone to touch it, but spent a lot of time carefully polishing the wood until it gleamed. All her meals, and those of her ladies, were prepared by her own cook, and brought up on trays. Once she fed me from her own plate, although I could tell my grandmother disapproved as she kept glaring at us.

  To look at, my grandmother was quite different from other ladies. Her red hair alone set her apart from everyone; it was a very unusual colour and shone as brightly as polished copper in the light of the wall sconces. Her face was not thought beautiful, like Queen Mary’s, but people noticed her, and I was not sure of the reason. It was only when I was older, that I could see it was probably a combination of her expressive green eyes and that flawless, creamy complexion which fascinated us all.

  But anyone who thought she was a weak, helpless female would have been quite wrong, which I discovered on many occasions as I grew up. But if all was to her liking, she could light up a chamber with her winning smile and charismatic ways with effortless ease, and I never had cause to doubt her sincerity. People seemed to be drawn to her, seemingly delighted when she noticed or singled them out for special attention. Her limitless energy almost crackled around her, she moved quickly and silently as if she was on her way to do something all the time.

  Even at such a young age, I guessed my aunt and grandmother did not always get on very well. Neither ever said as much in words, but I saw my grandmother’s lips tighten when we walked to my aunt’s apartments and she became wary, only relaxing again when we had left. I was never allowed to see my aunt alone, which I thought was a strange situation. Sometimes I was confused by my grandmother’s behaviour. She could be fierce with the servants, her voice echoing round the house and I knew they feared that she might find something wrong with their work. But she could be kind too, especially to me, although she was capable of changing quickly from a bad mood to a good one within seconds.

  One day I asked her why the servants called me ‘highness’.

  “Because I have commanded them to do so; you are a princess, in all but name,” she replied as we were in her bedchamber and I touched all her sparkling jewellery as it lay in open coffers on the bed for me to admire. She sat while Agnes, her maid, combed out her hair, which reached to beyond her waist.

  “A princess?” I was puzzled by this, as I did not live in London, with the queen.

  “You are too young to understand, child, but yes, because of your Stuart blood, you are a potential claimant to the throne of England. Our gracious Queen Elizabeth is not married and has no heir, except you and the boy king James, the son of Queen Mary, your aunt.”

  “Why am I not in London? Why am I living here with you?”

  “The queen will summon you to Court when you are older. In the meantime, you and your mother live here with me and the earl.” She paused, “I think you are afraid of him, little one.”

  “He is...”

  I hesitated to put into words what I felt for him. I had never forgotten the time when he ordered me to leave aunt Mary and uncle Gilbert’s house in Sheffield and return to Chatsworth. I was only three years old and very frightened to see him in such a rage. My grandmother’s voice was soothing as she tried to reassure me.

  “There is no need to be afraid. It is true he is a very important man and it is a great honour that the queen has bestowed on him to be jailor to your aunt. As long as you show him the respect that is due, and I have no reason to think that you will not, all will be well.”

  “But he is not my true grandfather is he?”

  “No, your real grandfather was Sir William Cavendish, he died some 22 years ago; I wish you could have known him.”

  Her face softened and I thought she was about to cry.

  “Do not be sad, lady grandmother; you will see him again in heaven.”

  She dabbed her eyes briskly with a silk handkerchief. “ Yes, of course I will, my sweet jewel. Now look at this ruby necklace, see how it sparkles. Try it on, you shall have your own jewels in time and you will be the grandest lady in the land.”

  I picked up the heavy gold necklace and placed it carefully round my neck. Agnes held a looking glass for me to admire it; both women smiled at me and I looked back at them proudly. I believed nothing could spoil my happiness.

  In 1582, when I was seven years old, I was told that I was to have my own tutor who would instruct me in everything a princess needed to know. I would learn Latin, French and Italian, study art, the classics and Greek mythology, as well as learn to play several instruments such as the lute and the viol. My grandmother was already teaching me to sew and embroider, for these skills were essential if I was to become an accomplished lady.

  My education was to be as thorough as the queen’s. Books started to arrive from London and shelves were assembled to hold them, extra quills, a carved writing desk, best quality parchment and more books were ordered from Derby. A padded chair was made for me to sit upon and extra wax candles placed around the chamber where I was to work. My tutor was a man called Mr Morley and I had lessons every morning and afternoon, except Sundays and feast days when the family gathered and we enjoyed one another’s company.

  I was quite pleased at the thought of learning new ideas, as I felt I had outgrown the childish games and toys that lay discarded in the corner. I longed to go and explore my surroundings, there was a world outside and I wanted to see it. Gradually I realised that although everyone else in the house could come and go as they pleased, the same freedom was denied to me. There were children I heard laughing as they walked along the lanes, I caught glimpses of them sometimes, poor individuals with drab and unkempt clothes. I was told they were not fit to be seen by me and quickly guided back indoors.

  My grandmother’s husband was a serious presence in any chamber; he looked cross all the time and never seemed to smile or laugh. I was told to call him ‘your grace’ even when it was just the family and he barely acknowledged me, which I was quite relieved about, as he clearly thought I was unimportant. He was so tall that he had to stoop to get through the doors and he had a long beard, which trapped food when he ate. I hid his stick for a jape once, but it caused no end of trouble, so I never did it again. I was told off more than once for staring at his hands, which were twisted and gnarled like the roots of an oak tree. This was due to arthritis, which old people have, although my grandmother had neither stick nor arthritis.

  Where possible, I kept out of his way, but he was always busy with his duties as jailor to my aunt, and the rest of the household did not see him very much. He refused to accept that I should be called ‘highness,’ which annoyed my grandmother greatly. She would give him one of her frightening looks, but said nothing.

  The rest of my family on the Cavendish side consisted of six c
hildren born to my grandmother, three girls, including my mother and three boys. So I had aunts Frances and Mary, as well as uncles Henry, William and Charles. All of them were very good to me and brought me presents, but uncle Henry was my favourite as he winked at me whenever he could, as if we shared a private joke. My grandmother often scowled at him over some minor remark that he had made, which, to me, seemed rather harsh treatment. We were a large family and my grandmother was firmly at the head of it when she was alive.

  I understood that when I was old enough to marry, my husband would be chosen for me by the queen, but I was told not to concern myself about such matters. In any case, there was enough to occupy me with my studies and the activities of the house. Carriages and waggons came and went all the time from wherever we were staying. The gamekeepers visited the kitchens each day, their arms full of the meat and fish they had caught for the table, our gardeners carried baskets of freshly picked fruit and vegetables to the cook and then there were the builders, sometimes hundreds of them, working on my grandmother’s latest project (there was always one.)

  The men made a lot of noise with their hammering and banging, but unlike everyone else, it never bothered her. Riders arrived throughout each day, carrying letters to and from Court in London, and round the country. There was usually a large stack of letters waiting on the Hall table, most of them written by my grandmother. Many of them related to her numerous and varied business interests, but there was also correspondence to family and friends.

  Whenever possible, I watched all the activity from my chambers on the upper floor, my nose pressed against the glass. All day, every day, the army of servants worked in the brewing house, dairy and laundry, whilst the stables were always busy with horses being groomed, tack polished and yards swept. I had three of my own fine ponies, although my grandmother would never allow me to progress beyond a trot, as she was afraid I would fall and hurt myself, or worse. I would sometimes sneak into the kitchens on a particularly cold day and sit by the open spit, watching in fascination as a suckling pig was roasted above the flames. Once the cook gave me warm bread and butter spread with honeycomb, and the kitchen boy looked longingly at it as he turned the spit. But when I offered him a morsel, the cook slapped his ear and told him to mind his manners. I did not want to get him into trouble again so I stopped going.

  Then my mother died. She had seemed a little better in the last year before her death and would walk in the garden and play with me, although I can only recall a pretty lady with dark hair. I have been told that everyone enjoyed her company because she was kind and generous; but she became very hot in the early months of 1582 and took to her bed, complaining of pains in her side. I did not feel much sadness, as I hardly knew her. My maid told me that I was now an orphan, and I realised that there was only one person left to truly care for me, my grandmother. It was not until I was older that I understood my grandmother’s position in society and everything it meant. She was the four times married Elizabeth Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury, or as everyone knew her, Bess of Hardwick: builder, moneylender, lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth and one of the wealthiest women in England.

  In those days Hardwick Hall stood alone at the top of a hill in a windswept valley of Derbyshire. It was my grandmother’s family home and she was proud of it. Like me, she never knew her father either, but she grew up surrounded by sisters and one brother, learning how to run a home and be a good Christian daughter. I soon became aware of her passion for building, with which she seemed obsessed. Every single home she ever owned was changed in some way with extra chambers, another storey or tower. She wanted to make her mark on it all.

  Other houses we stayed in as I was growing up were Chatsworth and Wingfield in Derbyshire, Sheffield Castle in Yorkshire and Tutbury Castle in Staffordshire. My favourite was Chatsworth, I don’t really know why, as they were all comfortable (with the exception of Tutbury), but I liked Sheffield Castle too because it was in the middle of the city and there was always so much happening. When I was younger, I would be allowed to visit the market with my nurse and buy a little wooden toy or some such trinket, as well as a warm, meat filled pastie from the red cheeked woman who always said I reminded her of her own daughter.

  I would love to eat it by the quayside and watch all the comings and goings. It was noisy and confusing with people shouting as they sold their wares, the sights and smells of humanity was here for all to see. Different faces, voices with the accent I came to know as Yorkshire were all around. The many stalls were a fascinating mix of different wares, from crusty loaves of bread, to leather shoes and brightly coloured ribbons fluttering in the breeze. Delicious aromas of cooking meat and onions would drift over the air, making my mouth water. The castle towered above it all, its stone walls impregnable and solid, where my poor aunt sat in her captivity and waited for a decision about her future.

  Constant movement from one home to another became normal for us. The journey to Chatsworth from Sheffield Castle would start by travelling south along the narrow lanes, pass desolate open moorland and heaths. The coach creaked and groaned as we climbed upward until we reached Owler Bar, where different roads meet, and on a clear day, we could see for miles. We would sometimes stop at the toll cottage to water the horses and stretch our legs, but not lingering long, as even in summer there was a chilly wind.

  From there, it was not too far before we could see Cavendish blue paint on the doors of wayside dwellings, and knew that our journey was almost over. Any tenants who happened to see my grandmother and me in the coach, would always acknowledge us as we passed by; the women curtseying and the men removing their caps if they wore one, or tugging their forelock as they nodded in respect. Children stared openly, some bold enough to wave before being scolded by their mothers.

  Chatsworth is large, with 97 rooms, and it sits beside the River Derwent, the longest river in Derbyshire. Its position is perfect and to come upon it as you approach is very pleasing. My grandmother loved to be there. Tutbury Lodge was everyone’s least favourite place. Every time she was brought there, Queen Mary would become physically ill. It was approached through a dark canopy of trees, so thick that no daylight could break through. A high stone wall sat round its perimeter, so that even a mounted rider could not see over it’s top. There was only one narrow entrance and a forbidding atmosphere about it when you stepped down from the coach; I felt it the first time I went there. I would look up at the towers and imagine the black windows to be evil eyes staring at me.

  Inside was no better, there was no escape from gloom, damp and icy draughts. My grandmother would order roaring fires in every chamber and hang heavy curtains over windows and doors, but nothing made any difference. There were no views from the windows, no markets nearby, no family or friends to cheer us. Our unhappy and despondent mood was only relieved when we packed up and left. When I asked why we were obliged to stay there, I was told because it was the most secure place for my aunt.

  It became clear to me from an early age that my aunt, Queen Mary, was seen as a dangerous woman by everyone known to me, and yet to my eyes, she was a kind and gentle lady who cuddled me with affection. I found it very hard to believe that she could be capable of plotting the death of Queen Elizabeth and I always put such thoughts to the back of my mind. I did wonder if people were wrong about her character and that she had been badly treated or led astray by unsuitable friends. But of course I was just a child and no one cared what I thought.

  There is a portrait of me that still hangs at Hardwick, painted when I was only two years old; it is the smell of the oil pigment itself that I remember, for it was overpoweringly strong. I have no recollection of the artist or anything else. It shows me dressed in a very sumptuous gown and holding a doll, I wonder that I was able to sit still for very long at such a young age. It was my grandmother Bess, of course, who commissioned it. The Lennox family motto is inscribed in the corner; Arbella, Countess of Lennox, Pour parvenir, j’endure (I endure, in order to succeed.) I think there were s
ome who thought the portrait rather presumptuous, and that a child of such tender years should not have a portrait at all. If anyone had dared to voice disapproval to my grandmother, she would have been undeterred and not cared in the least. It was a characteristic that I never managed to master.

  So my early years passed. You may think that I was spoilt and indulged and you may be right, but none of it was my own making. Without brothers or sisters, I was often lonely, despite all the people around me. The only other children with whom I was allowed to play, were my cousins and I rarely went on visits. I grew up to be demanding and proud, an isolated child, unaware that from birth that I was just a pawn in the many powers games at Court. Queen Elizabeth was a distant figure, as remote as the stars, but I had faith in her to secure my future, as my grandmother told me. I placed all my hopes in them both, for the one fact I found the hardest to accept as I was growing up, was that I was not in control of my own destiny. I was a female and to have that privilege, I should have been born a man.

  My visits to see Queen Mary stopped abruptly and my grandmother spent less and less time with the earl. Whenever they were in the same place, the atmosphere was tense, as frequent rows broke out between them. I was upstairs with my tutor during the day, but their raised voices could be heard all over the house, especially my grandmother’s. This in itself was shocking, as I knew wives were not supposed to challenge their husbands, let alone shout at them. But their marriage was the only one I had experience of, and knowing my grandmother as I did, I knew she would never be obedient and silent. These emotional outbursts were very upsetting, for everyone who lived with them, and Mr Morley would silently get up to close the window, avoiding my eye.