A Woman of Passion (34 page)

“Queen Mary murdered him as surely as if she had plunged a dagger into his heart,” Bess said softly.

Marcella demanded, “Aren't you going to get angry?”

My emotions are dead, Bess thought.

“So the queen wins! You are not even going to fight her!”

“You don't understand! William lost.”

“Bess, you are the one who doesn't understand. William is dead. These problems are now
your
problems. Lying on your bed will not solve them. The five-thousand-pound debt is
your
debt.
You
must sell the land,
you
must pay off the debt. The legacy William left you is not Chatsworth, it is your Cavendish children.”

Bess stood up all of a sudden. “I curse the bitch!” She ran to the front door, flung it open, and cried into the November wind, “I curse the bitch!”

The women exchanged relieved glances. Bess would be all right now that she had gotten angry.

The London house was on the Thames, the Cavendish barge moored at the water stairs. Bess went aboard
and spoke to the bargeman. “Take me upriver, past Whitehall—I need the air.”

She paced the deck without so much as a shawl. The fury erupting inside her kept her warm. Silently, Bess reviled the queen, heaping curses upon her head. Bess knew she was not alone in her hatred. Mary and the Spaniard she married had revived the practice of burning heretics at the stake, and her subjects condemned such evil and loathed her.

By the time Whitehall came into view, Bess had worked herself up to full pitch. Aloud she cried, “Bloody Mary! I'm going to fight you! Not one acre of Cavendish land will I part with! Not one acre! I will see you in your grave, you bitch!”

That night, in the privacy of her bedchamber, Bess cried for the first time. Her anger had opened the flood-gates, and her other dammed-up emotions of anguish and sorrow came pouring forth.

Later, when the storm abated somewhat, she lay in the big bed with her hand upon William's pillow. “My love, when I had the fever and thought I might die, I made you swear that you would make great marriages for our children. Now I give the same pledge to you. I can do no less, William. You will always be with me in them. Help me to be strong.”

Bess appointed Francis Whitfield as bailiff of Chatsworth; her sister Jane's husband would assist him. She put Timothy Pusey in charge of the lead and coal mines. She asked Robert Bestnay to become her secretary, and James Cromp, whom she trusted with her life, became her personal assistant.

Bess sent Cromp off with a letter to her old friend Sir
John Thynne, who had attended the funeral and offered to do anything he could for her. Then, accompanied by Robert Bestnay, she paid a visit to the lawyers.

Bess made her position abundantly clear. “Gentlemen, you probably believe the simplest way out of my difficulties is for me to sell Chatsworth and my northern landholdings to pay what I owe the Crown. But I have no such intent! I am going to fight, and gentlemen, when I fight it is with no holds barred. I will use every means within my power. If it is humanly possible, I will not sell one acre to pay my debt to the Crown.”

Bess had their full attention as she continued. “A bill to recover the five thousand will have to go through Parliament. I have dealt with the courts before and know how slow the process can be. It will be your job to see that the bill is delayed and delayed again. I don't care what it costs, and I don't care who you have to bribe. Cavendish taught me the effectiveness of the golden spur. I intend to put the London house up for sale today.”

Bess knew that the only way to save her sanity was to keep busy. Within three months of her husband's death, Bess had sold the London house and packed up everything. From Sir John Thynne, Bess leased his house at Brentford and moved the children there the moment the London house was sold. It was on the Thames close by her friend Nan Dudley's Syon House. The quiet village near Chelsea would give her privacy from the Court but still allow her to be close enough to London to learn everything that was happening.

Bess's income from her tenant farmers and mines was three hundred pounds a year. Her London expenses equaled her income, so the building at Chatsworth came to a halt. Not one pound could be expended on workmen
's wages or building materials. On top of this was the money she owed to Westmorland and to William Parr for the thousands of acres she and William had purchased from them.

Alone in her bed at night, she lay worrying about what would become of them all. She had shown a defiant face to the world, ordering the lawyers to use delaying tactics, but deep down inside she was realist enough to know the day of reckoning was inevitable. She feared that in the end Chatsworth and everything else she owned would have to be sacrificed. But at least her name had been on every legal document as co-owner. Bess had William to thank for the fact that she owned everything outright in her own name.

By keeping busy and expending all her energy, Bess got through the days. She played with the children, and she had learned to laugh again when she was with others, but the nights were something else entirely. She was so lonely she thought she would die of it. Her heart—and her body too—ached for him. She grew thin, and the emptiness inside her expanded instead of lessening, as day followed night and night followed day.

In late January Bess received a note from Frances Grey that read:
I have a surprise for you and Nan Dudley. Meet me tomorrow at Syon House.

Both Bess and Nan were gowned in black silk when their friend Frances swept in wearing scarlet.

“Good God, you look like two old crows, sitting there in your widows' weeds. 'Tis time you threw off your mourning and took lovers!”

“Which is apparently what you have done,” Bess said dryly.

“Ah, that is where you are completely wrong, darling. I took lovers long before I became a widow.”

Nan Dudley was shocked. “You took a lover while your husband was alive?”

Frances's eyebrows arched. “And you didn't?”

“Duke Dudley gave me thirteen children; what the hell would I want with a lover?”

“Bess, surely you took lovers,” Frances demanded.

“No, I never did, Frances. It was all I could do to keep Rogue Cavendish happy. He was a man of considerable appetite.”

“Well, fortunately for me, I now have a husband of considerable appetite!” Frances waved her new wedding ring under their noses.

“You're married?” Nan asked in disbelief.

“To whom?” Bess questioned.

“To Adrian Stokes, darling, my master of horse.”

Nan Dudley was speechless.

Bess said, “How old is he?”

“Twenty-one, darling. He has bright red hair, and you know what they say about redheads! I'm replete as a cat filled with cream.”

“Aren't you afraid of Bloody Mary?” Bess demanded.

“She has forbidden me the Court, thank God; the place is like a tomb these days.” Frances leaned forward and lowered her voice confidentially. “My daughter Catherine tells me the queen is ill. Her belly is swollen, but it isn't a child as she would have everyone believe. Her husband, Philip, has gone back to Spain. He's had enough of her false pregnancies!” Catherine had been made a lady-in-waiting to the queen as compensation for sending her sister, Lady Jane, to the block.

“I hope Mary rots!” Bess said with venom.

The three friends indulged in highly treasonous conversation for the rest of the afternoon. Before Frances left, however, their talk turned back to marriage. Both
Bess and Nan kissed their friend and wished her every happiness.

“In a way I have to admire Frances. She doesn't give a fart what the world thinks of her. I'll always love her no matter what outrageous thing she does.”

“Do you think there's any chance that the queen might be fatally ill?” Nan asked hopefully.

“Well, I certainly put a curse on her,” Bess hissed.

“So did my sons.” Nan sighed heavily. “The minute they were released, they went off to fight the war in France. The wretched queen declared war on France only at her husband's urging, to help Spain. It seems I never stop worrying over them.”

“They were in the Tower so long, Nan. Who managed to get them released?”

“I think Elizabeth asked Cecil to help. He worked for my husband years ago. In fact, it was Duke Dudley who got young King Edward to appoint Cecil as principal secretary. Queen Mary didn't keep him on in that position, but he still has influence.”

Bess sighed, remembering the caustic young man who had been a friend to her and William. Elizabeth had always trusted Cecil. Suddenly Bess wanted Elizabeth to know the rumor about the queen. It would give her a glimmer of hope. No one in the realm had more reason to hate Bloody Mary than Elizabeth did!

Bess told no one she was going to Hatfield, except the coach driver. When she was taken to Princess Elizabeth's private wing by attendants she had never seen before, Bess realized just how long it had been since she had visited. When the red-haired young women at last came face to face, Bess swept into a curtsy, then arose so they could study each other.

“I cannot believe it has been four years,” Elizabeth
said, putting a cautionary finger to her lips. Though Bess and Elizabeth had corresponded, they'd had to read between the lines. None of their private thoughts could be put down on paper. Whenever Bess had a child, she had told Elizabeth, who had written back to congratulate her, and when Sir William died, Elizabeth had sent her condolences.

Elizabeth took Bess into a private sitting room with a blazing fire. Bess kissed Cat Ashley, and that good woman took her embroidery and sat at the door as a watchdog so that the two friends might share their intimate thoughts.

“You are much thinner, Bess. Being widowed has robbed you of your lovely round curves.”

“A part of me died with William, but you know what that is like, Your Grace.”

“I do. But the sharp sorrow is tempered by poignancy and memories, even though they are bittersweet. I have learned there is something harder to bear than sorrow. It is fear—stark terror. When she sent me to the Tower, I did not believe I would come out alive. Even when I was released and sent to Woodstock, I could not sleep for fear of a dagger in the night; I could not eat for fear of poison. Her spies are here at Hatfield.”

Bess realized what Elizabeth said about fear was true. Bess herself had not lived a day without the terrifying emotion since William had told her of his trouble. “Your Grace, that is the reason I came. I wanted to ignite a tiny spark of hope.” Bess lowered her voice. “Lady Catherine Grey told her mother that Mary is ill. She is grossly swollen, but not with child. Philip has gone back to Spain in disgust.”

For a moment Elizabeth's amber eyes glittered gold. “She will never name me her successor. For months they
have been trying to marry me to Spain, but so far I have eluded their trap.” They talked on for two hours. Elizabeth told Bess how sick and tired she was of living a nun's life and wearing severe gray dresses every day of her life. Bess told Elizabeth of the massive burden of debt she owed the Crown and how she was struggling to hold on to what was hers.

Bess dared not stay longer in case she aroused suspicion. “I must go, Your Grace.”

“Bess, you have given me hope that there is a light at the end of this very long tunnel. Promise you will come again if you hear anything—anything at all!”

On the drive back to Brentford, Bess felt good about her visit. If she could bring a little warmth, a bit of happiness, or a glimmer of hope to the ones who mattered in her life, it would help to fill the emptiness inside her.

One month inexorably followed another, and at the end of each one, Bess heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief that Parliament had not yet signed the bill to recover what she owed the Crown. It was an intimidating prospect to pit her will against the government, to pay regular visits to her lawyers and browbeat them to use every means in hope of delaying the day of reckoning.

In order to assure herself things were being run properly in the north, Bess made hurried visits to Derbyshire and took her mother back to Chatsworth as caretaker, to be in charge of the magnificent house that was all but closed down. In the carriage Bess's mother tried to give her daughter some advice.

“Bess, darling, you are so slim these days; you are working and worrying yourself into a decline. Don't you think it would be more sensible to sell Chatsworth and rid yourself of this massive burden of debt? Then you
could marry a country squire and live in peace and comfort for the rest of your life.”

Bess stared at her mother in horror. “A squire? A bloody country squire? Bite your tongue! I should hope my ambition would allow me to look higher than a squire! But in any case I shall never marry again!”

Back at Brentford Bess burned candles long into the night, balancing her income with her output and cutting corners to make ends meet. Her sons were growing so rapidly, none of their clothes fit them, and on top of that she had no choice but to find the money for tutors. She couldn't afford to send them off to school, and they were becoming little hellions without the strong influence of their father.

Late one June night Bess was surprised by a visitor. When she realized the well-built, handsome man was Robin Dudley, she took him upstairs to her private sitting room.

“Lady Cavendish, you are even more beautiful today than the first time I met you.”

“My lord, I am almost thirty.”

His dark brown eyes shone with amusement. “Never admit to more than twenty-seven; it is a perfect age for a woman.”

Bess laughed. “All right, then, I won't.” She sobered quickly. “You are back from France. Was it very bad?”

“It was a bloody, shameful, ignoble defeat. We lost Calais.”

“I know. Mary's reign has been a disaster for everyone —for your family, for mine, and now for England.”

“Lady Cavendish—Bess, I know I can trust you, but may I speak plainly and in confidence?”

“Robin, you may say anything to me.”

“Have you seen Elizabeth?”

“Five months ago I took her the news that Mary was ill.”

“I am longing to see her, but I dare not go yet. Will you visit her again and tell her that Mary is
incurably
ill? I cannot reveal my sources, but Mary is still refusing to name Elizabeth her successor. So when she dies it may mean civil war to put Elizabeth on the throne. But whatever it takes we will do it. Just tell her that the wheels have been set in motion. She will understand.”