by Georgina Lee
“I have said I am sorry, lady grandmother.”
“So you should be. It may be a long time before you are summoned to Court again. I cannot bear to even look at you at the moment.”
A scarlet-faced Arbella shrinks back into her seat as Bess turns her head to look out of the window. She does not want to tell her that there may be other reasons for their dismissal by the queen. There is a real danger that should the Spanish invasion be a success, then Arbella could be used as a hostage and would be safer in Derbyshire. Also the queen is irritated by the kindness that the Earl of Essex has shown her. Everyone knows that she will not tolerate any rivals for the attention of her favourites. Bess is disappointed as well as furious, such visits are costly and this one has all been a waste of money, as well as humiliating; George will be delighted when he hears of it. She would have liked to stay longer, if only to see the Earl of Leicester, who by all accounts is unwell, although he is loyally preparing for the war with Spain. But it is at least a week before Bess is able to regard Arbella once more with her usual fondness.
The Spanish Armada is defeated in 1588 and the whole country celebrates the victory. Mingled with this great achievement, is a sadness for Queen Elizabeth, as the Earl of Leicester, her beloved Robbie, dies soon afterwards. She had advised him to take the waters at Buxton again, but he never reached the town; she is grief stricken and for days will see no one. Bess is also saddened to hear the news, as he has been a good friend to her, particularly during all her marital troubles with George. Bess continues with the building work at Hardwick, although she lives with Arbella at Wingfield. She sees her husband rarely, but she knows he has spies reporting to him on her movements.
Shrewsbury House, Chelsea – 1590
“Sign here, your grace”
George adds his shaky and almost illegible signature to the papers that his lawyer has set before him. At a high price he can little afford, he has bought the Barlow lands that were left to Bess by her first husband.
“I should have done this years ago,” George tells him. “I have had to watch my wicked wife profiting from all the sources of income that were left to her by her previous husbands – only one of whom could be called a gentleman, in my opinion. This will go some way to redress the balance.”
The lawyer nods diplomatically and adds his signature as witness. He finds the household of the earl and his mistress to be slightly comical, what other way is there to describe an attractive, young woman doting on a sick old man? He would not trust Mistress Britton as far as the door, and as for the earl himself, his mind has definitely deteriorated. On several occasions the lawyer has had to remind his client of the purpose of their meeting, or answer his repeated questions on the same subject. Once he even forgot his own name, but Mistress Britton is always at his side, ready to answer for him. “She does everything for me,” he once confided to him.
The lawyer watches in embarrassment as George fumbles his hands over her buttocks. She pushes them away and tells him, “Not now George, we have company.”
There is an awkward silence and the lawyer collects the documents before bowing and hastily leaving the chamber, breathing a sigh of relief that the business is done. Eleanor sits on the desk in front of him and he regards her with affection. For some years now she has been there for him and he is grateful. He knows she does not love him and covets his wealth, but these are small issues compared to being in her company. Just to feast his eyes on her is a treat and he lives in dread that she will leave him. Let people think what they will, he is past caring.
She thinks he looks every bit as old as his sixty-two years; his hair is sparse and grey, his eyes rheumy with heavy bags sagging down deeply lined cheeks. No longer able to stand upright because of his arthritis and rheumatism, his body is bent forward like a windswept tree. It is his mind that she is more interested in, because he is so forgetful it is easy for her to take an item, and tell him he said she could have it. She knows everything about his finances and reads every letter that comes to the house and every letter he sends. He has given her a free rein with the running of the household, and as long as he is kept well fed, warm and comforted, he does not ask questions.
When he complains about his children, she suggests he refuses to see them any more. When Sir Francis Walsingham dies, she advises he writes more frequently to Lord Burghley instead. He revels in being petted and fussed over by her as no one has ever done so before, at least, not that he can remember.
“I have not long for this world my Ellie, you are my only comfort now,” he croons at her as they lie in bed together. He likes to hold her as they fall asleep and while doing so, his thoughts invariably turn lately to his life achievements and death. After all these years, the insinuation that Bess made to him is still raw in his mind. She said he never had to work for what he achieved, and he cannot forget her words. With the great wealth and status of the Shrewsbury name, he has always enjoyed riches and privilege; it was taken for granted and never thought about from one day to the next. He cannot help but wonder if he had not been so highly born, he could have managed to climb the ladder of success as Bess’ second husband, Sir William Cavendish, had done so brilliantly. But such men increasingly outshine those such as himself; he can think of several who have risen by their wits in the Tudor Court of Queen Elizabeth and her father. He secretly regards them with contempt. But he plans to out do them, even in death. He has been composing an inscription for his tomb, which has kept him busy, and provided some relief from the more mundane administrative work which constantly threatens to overwhelm him. Determined the inscription will not contain any reference to Bess, he ignored the surprised look on the face of the Latin translator when he told him. His marble sarcophagus will show him as a young man in plate armour and he likes the idea of having a hunting dog at its feet. Coincidentally the obvious choice is a Talbot, his father’s favourite hunting breed. All his family would have to do after his death would be to add the date.
Eleanor is almost asleep. Each day she wonders how much longer she has to bear his touch or pander to his every whim, for the sight and smell of him revolts her. She hates his bony, deformed hands and the way his adoring eyes follow her about the room, as if he was a puppy waiting for attention. Sometimes she finds the key to the chest of money kept in his bedchamber and opens it, running her fingers through the coins and thinking of everything that she could buy. As she polishes the silver plate each week, she decides which of the booty she will keep and where she will place it in her new home. There are his oil paintings she likes too, as well as a striking clock, gold basins and some valuable jewellery that belonged to his first wife, some of which he has already given to her. But she wants the best pieces too and feels resentful that they are not already in her possession.
When George goes out, which is not often lately, Eleanor sits in the warm kitchen with her nephew John, and they plan how to spend his money. John is a lumbering giant, a sixteen-year-old spotty faced youth, with a thick neck and a mop of curly hair. He wishes to take it all now, but Eleanor tells him they must be patient. He is not very good at being patient, but childlike, he trusts her to do the thinking for both of them.
As autumn days turn to winter and the last of the leaves have fallen, George takes to his bed. He is ailing with gout and in constant pain. An old retainer visits him and George becomes very agitated, telling him in a tremulous voice that Arbella will cause a lot of trouble for Bess. After that he gradually becomes more and more confused, calling Eleanor by the name of his first wife, Gertrude, and crying that he sees Catholics at the foot of his bed and they should be killed before they do any more harm.
At one point he thinks the Scottish Queen is beside him, and he attempts to get up, but his strength is gone. Eleanor sits with him and makes him comfortable, trying not to show her impatience. One evening John stands at the door of his bedchamber and beckons to her.
“The old fool is taking an age to die. Can we not hurry his death a little?” he whispers. �
�I could do it now, it would take but a minute.”
“Do not call him that, John!” she snaps. “Whatever else he is, I will not have him called a fool.” She looks back at him as he lays defenceless in the bed, his eyes closed. “What are you suggesting?”
“A pillow over his face would be the quickest. He would never know, he is half gone already.”
She frowns and thinks about it, murder is not to be taken lightly.
“I will give him one more night.”
John nods, pleased that she has agreed, and goes back to the kitchen. He has already started packing and longs to be far from this place. Their plan is not needed in the end as George obliges them by taking his last breath on the morning of 18th November, and the two of them waste no time in the first hour after his death. Eleanor begins to ransack the house at once, and with John’s help they load everything of value onto a waiting cart. By the time they have finished, the house looks empty, for she has stolen furniture and bedding too. “We must get away.” John is sitting on the cart with his hands on the reins.
“Wait!” she says and hurries back inside to the earl’s desk. She rummages in one of the drawers and finds a few property leases, which she quickly stuffs into her bag. Stopping by the open door to his chamber, she hesitates and goes over to him one last time. His face looks serene, all the troubles and pain have left his body.
“You were good to me, old man,” she whispers softly. “I am sorry.” She finds to her surprise that a single tear rolls down her cheek and she hastily brushes it away before John should see it. With a final look around the house, she runs outside to join him and they make their escape before anyone can stop them, the loaded cart causing much comment from bystanders until they reach the open road.
George’s cold body lies alone in his bed, for the moment forgotten, estranged from his wife and family. His home looks bare and unkempt, the latch of an open window bangs in the wind and the remnants of a meal sit on the kitchen table. His desk is in its usual disarray, with some of the papers scattered on the floor. The fires have all gone out, and a chilly air blows through each chamber. It has taken only a few hours for an unlived-in atmosphere to pervade the walls. Torn between anger and grief, this is how Gilbert finds everything later that day. It seems all the neighbours have their own version of the events and are keen to regale him with stories of Eleanor and her nephew. Tight lipped, he listens wearily to them all, but makes no comment. He is now the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, his wife Mary is the new countess, and Bess is widowed for the fourth time; but George will still manage to cause them trouble, even from the grave.
Wingfield Manor, Derbyshire
As soon as she hears of George’s death, Bess sends for his lawyer to confirm the contents of his will. She cannot feel much sorrow at his passing after all that has happened between them, but she has no regrets. Her everyday life will not change very much; there will be more administration work from her Shrewsbury inheritance, but nothing that cannot be handled. Gilbert has written to tell her of the circumstances of his father’s last days and that he must see her urgently. When he arrives, she is taken aback by his dishevelled appearance and wild manner. “Bess! Thank the Lord you are here.” He gives her a fleeting kiss after bowing absent-mindedly and begins to pace the floor in nervous agitation. Such behaviour reminds her briefly of George, a thought she quickly dismisses.
“Did you know how badly the Shrewsbury estates have been managed over recent years?”
He does not wait for a reply and Bess sits watching him. She has already guessed which way the wind is to blow, and has prepared herself for when the moment comes that she is to tell him.
“I had expected my debts to be paid off when I succeeded to the title, but what do I find? There is little enough money to even pay the expenses of the lawyers. That scheming bitch Britton has taken everything she could carry away! All the Shrewsbury jewellery that should by rights be passed to Mary now, gold chains, silver plate, bedding – she has even taken cattle, can you believe it? My father spent a fortune on this new house at Worksop, and another in London; of course paying for the Scots Queen proved to be the biggest drain of all.”
He sits down beside her and hangs his head in dejected misery.
“My creditors are closing in on me, they do not believe I have inherited next to nothing.”
“Gilbert, you must calm yourself. Have some wine, it cannot be as bad as you say.”
“I do not think you quite realise the seriousness of my situation – or maybe Mary has already told you. I know you women gossip amongst yourselves.”
“Mary has mentioned it, only because she is worried. I can recommend someone to advise you if you wish.”
“They will be no help,” he replies and drains his goblet before sitting down opposite her. “I shall have to raid her house and take it all back.”
“If she can prove it was all given to her, then it will not be so easy.”
“She will not be able to prove anything! I cannot let her get away with it, Bess. This is such a mess! My two brothers have been named as executors, not me, his heir. I am hardly mentioned in the will,” he adds in despair.
“When was this will written? Is is actually legal?”
“Oh yes, it is legal, signed and witnessed correctly. He made it six months ago, when he was well under Britton’s control.”
“Will your brothers agree to be the executors?”
“I think not, in which case I shall take over the duties myself, as is right and proper.”
“But you will still have the entailed properties.”
“What good are they without cash? I know my father kept about £10,000 as gold coins in one of the chests, of course it has disappeared and I doubt we shall see it again.”
“You have a battle ahead of you Gilbert. If I can be of any help with the administration …”
“As a matter of fact, you can help me.”
He looks at her eagerly and leans forward, his eyes shining with hope.
“You will inherit a tidy sum from my father. More than you need. You could easily give up your widow’s rights.”
Bess gets up to stand facing the fire and does not reply for a few moments; he holds his breath as he waits, but feels confident about the outcome. But when she speaks at last, her voice is unequivocal.
“I am not prepared to do that, Gilbert. I am sorry you are in this position, but I cannot help you.”
“It would be little enough to you, but everything to me. Look around Bess; you are a wealthy woman without your widow’s portion. You would hardly miss it.”
She turns to face him, her expression resolute. Gilbert stands up too; his fists clenched and he looks at her uncomprehendingly.
“You have helped Henry often enough! I have been more of a son to you than he ever has.”
“Have you forgotten that I have loaned you money too, which you still owe me? Both of you need to control your finances better. When the dust has settled, you will be able to assess the situation and work to salvage what you can from it. I will help with …”
“If you refuse to help me with the money, I do not want your help at all.”
“Very well. You must take responsibility for yourself, Gilbert. You are now the head of the Shrewsbury family and you must behave as such.”
“So at last you show your true colours!” He takes a few steps towards her then hesitates.
“Gilbert …” she puts her hand out to touch his shoulder, but he jerks back roughly. His eyes are burning with indignation.
“I always defended you against all the gossips and people who speak ill of you, and there are many, believe me! But I can see now that they were right and I was wrong. You are greedy and ruthless, you only think selfishly of yourself. No one would listen to my poor father when he told us your true nature; we all thought he was exaggerating. But it seems he knew better than anyone. Well, do not trouble yourself, madam. Take your widow’s portion and all the rest of it that you have stolen from you
r dead husbands, and when I am sent to jail for my debts, you may say to yourself, yes, it is I who helped put my stepson there! And tell your grandchildren the same! I hope you will be proud of yourself.”
“Why should I agree to your demands?” she shouts passionately. “Why should I forgo what is rightfully mine? I have endured over twenty years of being married to your father, who has treated me with vengeance and hatred. He accused me of being the worst of wives and sullied the memory of my other husbands with his cruel comments. I have had the allowances owed to me withheld by him for years. He stormed my beloved Chatsworth and kept me from living there peacefully. He frightened my sons and tenants with his violent ways. Do you know how humiliating it has been for me to have his mistress flaunted around the city? All my attempts to reconcile with him and live as man and wife have been rejected. Do you really think I am going to walk away with nothing from this marriage after all that?”
Gilbert can only look at her with narrowed eyes; he knows what she says is the truth.
“No, I am not going to, even for you Gilbert,” she tells him, her voice much calmer. “I love you as my own son, but I will have what is mine. You must find another way to solve your money problems.”
“Is that your final word?”
“It is.”
“Then there is no more to be said.”
Bess holds his gaze steadily and watches as he storms out of the chamber. She hears him shouting to the servant for his horse and within minutes he is gone; the house resumes its silence again and it was as if he had never been. She stands still for a while; the chamber has become gloomy in the gathering dusk, a floorboard creaks and a blackbird swoops across the grass, it’s song piercing the icy air. It has been a long time since she has had to speak out and defend herself. His words echo in her head – greedy, ruthless, selfish. She cannot allow herself to entertain even a shadow of doubt that she is doing what is right for herself. Gilbert asks too much of her. Maybe it had been optimistic to think she would not have to stand up for herself again. Her head has started to ache and wave of tiredness washes over her. She climbs the stairs to find Agnes, who will massage her neck and shoulders with scented oils to try and soothe away the cares of the day. Soon she will have to see Mary, who will not be at all surprised by her mother’s decision.
