B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  Bess glanced at Will’s impassive face beside her. Losing Chatsworth would affect him profoundly as well. Ned St. Loe and his wife were settled at Sutton Court and would hold it through her lifetime. Will’s other main house, Tormarton, was leased. She and Will and the children still at home would have nowhere to live but the house in Tuthill Street. The thought of being in London always, not having the refuge of Chatsworth to retreat to, cast an even deeper shadow over her heart.

  And Bess thought of her first William. He had planned so carefully and labored so hard to acquire Chatsworth, gradually building its holdings, tending its acres like a vast garden.

  Help me, William, she begged silently. You helped me before, help me now to know what to say that I might not lose our treasure.

  When Bess was at last called to testify, she felt as if William Cavendish’s spirit were hovering nearby, giving her strength as he had done in life.

  “I know without question,” she declared, “that my husband did all that was in his power, through the many years that he served the crown, to oversee accounts that were in a tangle when he took over responsibility for them. I know that he strove to ensure that King Edward, and then Queen Mary, should live comfortably and with never a worry if he could prevent it. I know that he paid for expenses of the privy chamber from his own pocket rather than something that was needed should be lacking, and that he did his best, unfailingly, in circumstances that were always difficult.” Tears came to her eyes as she recalled William struggling from his sickbed to prepare the account books that he sent to the Star Chamber when he was too ill to appear himself. “I know that his travails cost him many an anxious night and at the end, his health and his very life. I beg you to accept the records over which he labored in his efforts to clear himself, for they are written with his heart’s blood.”

  She stopped, trying not to weep. Perhaps she had not spoken like a lawyer, but she had told the truth, and if they would not hear her, there was nothing more she could do.

  She made her way back to her seat, where Will was waiting. He took her hand in his.

  “Well said, my love,” he murmured.

  They sat in silence while the judge studied a sheaf of papers before him, their cargo the long sad story of William Cavendish’s battle to clear his name and his debt and to leave Bess in comfort and security. Atop them lay a sheet from which dangled seals of red wax. Could it be from the queen? Bess hoped. The judge read it over again, his finger moving down the parchment, his lips pursed. At last he looked up.

  “Come forward, Lady St. Loe, and you, too, Sir William.”

  Will took her arm and helped her forward and she tried to keep from trembling as she waited for the judge to speak.

  “Taking into consideration all that you have said, and all that your worthy husband Sir William Cavendish did and said, and the recommendation of her most gracious Majesty, I find that it is most like that any shortfall in the accounts was not from dishonesty, but from oversights and errors, many of which, as you say, existed before ever your husband became treasurer of the king’s chamber.”

  Bess let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

  “Therefore, I do not find it meet that he, or you, should be held accountable for the sum of”—he squinted at one of the sheets of paper—“five thousand, two hundred thirty-seven pounds, five shillings, and three quarters of a penny. However”—Bess’s heart plunged into her stomach—“at the queen’s pleasure, I am imposing a fine of a thousand pounds. And you, Lady St. Loe, and Sir William, and also Henry Cavendish, the son and heir of Sir William Cavendish, must beg pardon of the queen. And there the matter shall be at an end.”

  “Thank you, your worship,” Bess could barely get the words out and was afraid she would swoon, so great was the pressing swirl of emotions she was feeling. Relief that she would not lose Chatsworth, not have to beggar herself to pay the crown the debt of five thousand pounds. Anxiety at the fine—still a great amount of money. A sense of lightness that at last it was all over, and she was finally free of the burden of worry that had crushed her for so long.

  “We can manage that,” Will said, once they were outside, and her heart ached to see the relief in his face and to know how afraid he had been as well. “A sharp bite, make no mistake, but then all the trouble will be behind us.”

  “Yes,” she said, seeking the shelter of his arms. “Oh, Will, thank you. I don’t know how I would have borne it if I had lost Chatsworth. I wish you could go home with me now.”

  “I know. But as soon as the queen’s progress is done I will join you there.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb and kissed her. “Hush, now, my sweet girl. All is well, and all shall be well. There’s not a braver lass in the kingdom.”

  First of February, 1565—London

  “Ah, Bess it is such a joy to have you back!” Frances Brooke greeted Bess. “Come, let us sit by the fire with our needlework, and gossip to our heart’s content. At court there is never the time to truly talk.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Bess said, kissing her, “but first you must let me see the baby. And look, I have made him a little cap.”

  She pulled the tiny item from the bag of needlework she had brought and held it up. She had worked a pattern of strapwork in crimson on the ivory silk, and little ribbons would tie beneath the baby’s chin.

  “What an angel you are!” Frances cried. “And how exquisite it is! If he be awake we’ll put it on him straight away.”

  Little Henry, born at the end of November, was awake, and smiled up at Bess as she took him into her arms.

  “Oh, what a sweet little lamb thou art. And strong and determined, too!” she laughed, as he pulled at her hand and latched his mouth onto the tip of her little finger.

  “Any good news for you, Bess?” Frances asked, bending down to hoist her two-year-old daughter Elizabeth into her arms and jouncing her on her hip.

  “No, alas,” Bess said, kissing Henry’s forehead and inhaling his sweet scent. “I don’t know, I think perhaps the birth of my poor Lucres left me unable to conceive. For I never had any difficulty before—I bore eight children in ten years with William. No, I am struggling to accept that I will have no more.”

  “Oh.” Frances’s eyes clouded with sadness and she took Bess’s hand. “I’m sorry. How sad.”

  “Yes. But I thank God that all my little ones are well—and not so little, anymore, either. Charlie has joined Willie at Eton, you know.”

  “Has he! How time flies.”

  They settled near the hearth in Frances’s withdrawing chamber, the light and warmth of the fire warding off the gray of the winter sky outside the windows.

  “Have you heard from Lizzie lately?” Bess asked, taking out her needlework. “I’ve had no letters since I last saw her a fortnight ago.”

  A few months earlier, Lizzie had told Bess that she was suffering from what her doctor believed was a cancer in her breast. The queen had summoned the King of Bohemia’s own doctor to attend on her, she said, and she had great hopes that she would be cured. But during their recent visit, Bess had been shocked at how thin and fragile Lizzie looked.

  “I called on her a few days ago,” Frances said. “She was very tired and in low spirits. And ashamed over what had happened with that rogue Griffith, though it was none of her fault.”

  “Is it true, then?” Bess asked. “I heard that the servant of one of the doctors attempted to seduce her.”

  “Alas, yes. Though to call the man a doctor is a stretch. In my opinion he’s little better than a mountebank, giving her false hopes with his ridiculous concoctions.”

  Bess could imagine only too well Lizzie’s desperate desire to find a cure. She might well have fallen victim to such a charlatan herself if she were in similar circumstances.

  “Poor Lizzie.”

  “Well, both mountebank and servant are in prison now, so at least they have got their due.”

  A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters
and Bess looked up from her needlework.

  “It will be snow tonight, I think.”

  “Aye.” Frances’s face was sad. “Oh, Bess, tell me some good news. Surely there is some!”

  “Did I tell you that Will has been made commissioner for the peace in Derbyshire and Gloucester?”

  “No! That’s splendid. A reason for him to be able to spend more time at Chatsworth, perhaps?”

  “I will certainly make the case for it! Though like his being a member of Parliament for Derbyshire there is more honor than actual work in the position.”

  “I hear that Kate Grey has been moved to Ingatestone Hall,” Frances said, pulling out a skein of bright blue silk and holding it up to the embroidery in her lap. “Do you hear from her?”

  “Yes, she writes.” The familiar weight of sadness settled on Bess’s heart. “There is but one theme to her letters: she misses Edward and her babies most dreadfully, queries whether the queen shows any sign of forgiving her, and importunes me to beg Her Majesty that she be allowed to live with her husband and children, or at least to see them.”

  “And?”

  Bess shrugged helplessly. “I cannot be forever peppering the queen with questions about what she means to do with Kate Grey. I have twice taken what seemed an opportune moment to put in a plea on Kate’s behalf, but you know as well as I that pushing will gain nothing.”

  “You’re right there.”

  They worked in silence for a few moments, the pungent scent of the peat on the fire perfuming the air.

  “The queen was so pleased with our New Year’s gifts,” Frances said. “Let us put our heads together and devise something special for her birthday.” She had made a pair of sleeves and Bess had made a matching caul for Elizabeth, with materials that Frances had sent her at Chatsworth.

  “An excellent idea. What would suit best, do you think?”

  Frances had recently been made mistress of the queen’s robes. She cocked her head as she took a mental inventory.

  “Perhaps a suite of ruffs for neck and wrists. She has not many of them and the fashion seems to be with us for the nonce.”

  “I saw the most beautiful white silk—fine as a spider’s web.”

  “Perfect. Perhaps we can use it to catch her goodwill for poor Kate.”

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS AFTER HER VISIT WITH FRANCES, BESS RECEIVED A letter from her brother Jem and one from her mother. She opened her brother’s first, feeling a pang of guilt that she had not written to him lately, and growing more worried as she read. Jem wrote that he was very ill—still the trouble with his lungs—and in desperate financial condition. In halting and embarrassed language, he asked if Bess could lend him money, with his coal mine at Heth as collateral, or whether she might want to buy a piece of land he owned at Auldwerk. Things must be bad at Hardwick indeed, she thought, for Jem to swallow his pride and come to her, cap in hand. She broke the seal on the letter from her mother.

  My dear Bess, I pray that this letter finds you well. The girls and all here are in health, but the same cannot be said for your brother. I know that he has written to you, and I urge that if you are in a position to do so, you buy the land he offers. It is very good land, and it would be worth much to my comfort that you should have it before any other.

  “Your mother is a good judge of property,” Will said when Bess read him the letters that night. “She put you onto Chatsworth, after all. It would be better to have a sight of the land, though. I hate buying a pig in a poke.”

  “I don’t suppose there is any question that you can go?”

  “I wish it were so, but not just now. I’m sure the queen can spare you for a bit, though. Why not go and stay at Chatsworth until the spring?”

  “The roads will be dreadful at this time of year. But it would do me good to see the girls.”

  “You could be there for Bessie’s tenth birthday.”

  Bess’s mind immediately turned with pleasure to what delights she could bring her daughter.

  “Oh, you know me too well, my heart. Very well, that settles it. I shall go, hard as it is to be away from you.”

  * * *

  BESS HAD BEEN AT CHATSWORTH ONLY A FEW DAYS, AND HAD NOT yet had time to inspect Jem’s land, when her steward James Crompe came to her chamber as she was visiting with her mother and Aunt Marcella one evening after supper, appearing agitated.

  “What is it?” she asked in alarm.

  “My lady, I’m most sorry to disturb you, but your husband’s man Greves has just arrived from London. He says that Sir William is ill, and that he must speak with your ladyship urgently.”

  Bess jumped to her feet, her heart pounding with fear. Will had been fine when she had left him less than a fortnight before. It was not the season for plague. Smallpox then? He would not have sent for her if he wasn’t seriously ill. She raced down the stairs and to the kitchen, her mother and aunt at her heels and Crompe following behind. Greves paced there, his cloak and boots spattered with mud and his face red with the cold.

  “Oh, your ladyship!” Greves bowed hastily when he saw Bess. “My master fell suddenly ill a few days after you left London and was in a most grave case when I left him. You must come back to London, my lady.”

  “What happened?” Bess cried. “What signs of illness did he exhibit? A fever? Is it smallpox? Did he send a letter?”

  “He was out of his senses, madam, and could not write. The sickness came upon him most suddenly—a griping in the guts, and bloody flux.”

  “Dear God.” Bess turned to Crompe. “I must leave in the morning—see to everything. I’ll ride and take only two men with me besides Greves.”

  “What else?” she demanded of Greves. “Had he doctors? Who is caring for him?”

  “Oh, yes, madam. Two doctors, and Sir William’s own brother was most solicitous of him, sitting by his bedside into the night.”

  A wave of terror and nausea swept over Bess.

  “His brother?”

  “Yes, my lady, Edward St. Loe. He arrived but a day or two after you left and had been in the house some days when my master was taken poorly.”

  Bess staggered with the shock of it and clutched her mother’s arm.

  “Oh, dear God. Surely he is poisoned! Ned tried it once before.”

  “Come, sit,” her mother murmured, guiding her to a chair. She turned to Crompe. “Fetch some brandy for her ladyship, if you please.”

  “Mother, what shall I do?” Bess cried. “How can I wait until morning? Perhaps I should leave tonight.”

  She threw her arms around her mother’s waist, burying her face in her mother’s skirt as if she were a child and her mother could make all well.

  “You would take your life in your hands to travel these roads by night,” her mother said, stroking her hair. “We’ll get you packed and you can leave at sunup. Perhaps by the time you reach him he will be quite recovered. We must hope for the best.”

  * * *

  BESS MADE THE JOURNEY TO LONDON IN ONLY FOUR DAYS, EVERY minute of it a torment of anxiety. When at last she arrived at her house she slid from the saddle without waiting for a groom to help her dismount and pounded at the door. The porter opened it, his face wet with tears.

  “Your ladyship.” His voice choked. “Alas, my master . . .”

  “No,” Bess cried, rushing up the stairs to the bedchamber. The steward met her at the door, blocking her way.

  “My lady, I pray you, don’t enter . . .”

  She pushed past him and stopped in her tracks, clapping a hand over her mouth in grief and shock. For the face of the figure on the bed was draped and the stench of death was in the air.

  “Will!”

  She went to the bed and threw back the cloth and then started back and screamed. It was Will’s face, but scarcely recognizable, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a grimace of pain, eyelids half-closed over lifeless jelly, skin blackened with decay.

  Then Jenny was at her side, taking her by the arm. “Oh, Bess,
come from here, come away.”

  “Oh, God!” Bess keened, collapsing against her sister, sobbing. “How came it so? What was Ned doing here? Why would Will have let him in the house?”

  “I will tell you all,” Jenny promised, leading her from the room. “Come, the best bedchamber is made ready for you. Let me make you as comfortable as you may be. Oh, Bess, I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  BESS GOT THROUGH THE DAY OF WILL’S FUNERAL FEELING AS IF SHE were in a nightmare. Surely she would wake and find that this horror was not true. She tried to listen to the priest but his voice seemed to be first loud and then to fade to nothing, to be overwhelmed by the buzzing in her head.

  “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery: he cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he flieth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay . . .”

  She watched as Will’s coffin was lowered into the ground beside his father’s at the church of St. Helen’s Bishopsgate, heard the dull thud of the clods of earth on the lid. Around her Will’s friends were gathered—so many people, the highest in the land, come to do him honor. But surely he couldn’t be gone. It made no sense.

  “I shall rise out of the earth in the last day, and shall be covered again with my skin, and shall see God in my flesh . . .” But how was that possible, when his skin was rotted away? “And I myself shall behold him, not with other but with these same eyes.” No, not with those dead-fish eyes rolled back beneath their lids.

  “Of whom may we seek for succor, but of Thee, O Lord?”

  But it is Thou who hast taken my most beloved husband from me . . .

  “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not up Thy merciful eyes to our prayers.”