B009RYSCAU EBOK (37 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Twenty-fifth of July, 1563—Tuthill Street, London

T
HE MOOD IN
L
ONDON WAS BITTER AND FULL OF FEAR.
A
MBROSE
Dudley had not only failed to regain control of Calais, but had surrendered the other English-held port, Newhaven. Adding to England’s humiliation, he had been shot in the leg during the negotiations with the French. Robert Dudley, in defiance of the queen’s wishes, had ridden to Portsmouth to welcome his injured brother. And to top all, the returning English troops had brought plague to London and now the pestilence was raging through the city.

“More than three thousand dead last week,” Will said somberly. “The sooner the queen departs on her progress the better.”

“I thank God that you will be here to help me in court next week,” Bess said. “I don’t think I would have had the courage to face it alone.”

At last, after six agonizing years of uncertainty, the Exchequer suit over the money that she owed to the crown on William Cavendish’s behalf would be heard.

“You have the heart and courage of a lion, my love.” Will smiled. “And Her Majesty listened with great sympathy when I begged for lenience in the matter. But I, too, am glad I will be here to stand in your defense.”

When they entered the court chamber, memories rushed into Bess’s mind of the day she had appeared in court in her fight to get her widow’s dower after Robbie Barlow’s death. That battle had been the start of William Cavendish’s courtship of her, and his steady guidance when she was so frightened had been the foundation on which her love for him had been built.

Bess was not so frightened now. She was no naïve girl as she had been then, clinging to William Cavendish as her only hope in a sea of despair. She knew the judge, and he knew her both as a lady of the queen’s privy chamber and as the wife of Sir William St. Loe, on whom the queen relied for her daily safety.

Still, if the court should find against her, she would have to come up with five thousand pounds. She had tried for so long not to let the possibility become too real in her mind, for it terrified her. For the only way that she would be able to raise such a sum would be to sell her beloved Chatsworth, into which she had poured so much work and money, so many hopes and dreams. She thought of the endless wagonloads of furnishings brought from London at such huge expense. A hundred details of the house crowded into her mind—the four dozen tapestries; the rich sheen of the sunlight on the paneling of the walls of her bedchamber in the late afternoon; how luxuriant and lovely the garden Jenny had planted had become. And what the house had seen! There May and Lucres had been born, and Bess had watched with pride as her children grew and thrived.

Her children! She and William had conceived of Chatsworth as the seat of a family growing in power and importance. The grand house and its vast lands were to help secure a great prize of a bride for young Harry when it came time for him to marry. So many times Bess had imagined future generations of Cavendishes, each rising higher than the last. If Chatsworth were lost, that future would be lost as well.

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.”