B009RYSCAU EBOK (39 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A
S SOON AS THE
C
HRISTMAS FESTIVITIES ENDED WITH
T
WELFTH
Night, Bess embarked on her inventory of Chatsworth.

“We will deal principally with the furniture, hangings, bedclothes, and so forth,” she told Crompe. “The best will go into the new rooms, and when I am in London I can buy what is needed to furnish the rest of the house.” She glanced around her bedchamber—how many articles it held! And all the ninety-seven rooms of the house were the same, containing acres of carpets and tapestries and untold numbers of objects. “What a job it will be. But the sooner begun, the sooner we will be done.”

When Crompe had gone, she seated herself near the fire and looked around the room. Over the years she had made her bedchamber into a comfortable and elegant nest for herself, filled with her favorite items. The bed curtains were of rich red and trimmed with silver lace, a red silk quilt overlay the underquilts and down feather bed, and three velvet bolsters and a pile of pillows made it easy for her to sit up in bed and read or write.

Gathered near the fireplace around the large chair in green checked silk in which she sat were a smaller chair upholstered in black velvet and two of leather. Will’s portrait stood on a table near the bed, and the portrait of Jane Grey and another of her first William decorated other tables. All the tables were draped in green silk that matched the window curtains. Six large coffers held her clothes and bed linens. This room contained everything she needed; she could have stayed within it for months, lacking nothing from outside but her meals.

No, not quite nothing. Companionship was something she very much needed, and for that, she must sometimes venture out. True, her daughters and Jenny spent much time with her, as did her mother and Aunt Marcella. And other attendants and servants were always within the sound of a bell.

But still something was missing. A man’s presence.

Could it be? Bess wondered. When Will had died she had thought she would never again look on a man with love, that no man could compare to he whom she had lost. But now, almost a year since he had departed this earth, she was not so sure. She missed the company of someone—not just anyone, but someone who understood her without her having to explain herself, someone with whom she walked in comfortable yoke, like oxen harnessed for plowing. A husband. She was used to being married, and missed it.

The next day Bess received a letter from Frances, full of the news at court.

I am sure you will not be surprised,
Frances wrote,
to hear that all the talk is still of Her Majesty’s marriage. On Twelfth Night, Robert Dudley told me that at Christmas he had asked the queen to marry him and that she had promised she would answer him by Candlemas. But the day passed with nothing said, and now I hear he has urged the queen to marry the Archduke Charles, as Cecil and others of her privy council have so long desired.

But think you she will? I do not. The archduke is most stubbornly Papist and the queen declares that for her to marry one who does not share her faith would cause a thousand inconveniences. Moreover, she reminds the privy council of the disastrous consequences of the Spanish marriage of Queen Mary. She argues—with truth, I must say—that changing laws on the succession and the uncertainty and turmoil over royal marriages have been responsible for many rebellions from the time of her father’s reign until that of her sister’s. She says that no matter who she marries, many will be displeased, and that any marriage will be likely to incite further revolts.

As to Dudley, I think Her Majesty liked not that he seemed to give her up at last, for she flirted much with her cousin, my lord of Ormonde. She hit the mark she intended, it seemed, for Leicester was in a rage to see the attentions she paid to Black Tom, as they call Ormonde, and he has gone from court.

You will likely have heard that the Scottish queen is with child. God knows how that development will affect what Her Majesty does, but I have heard her say that naming any heir would be an inducement to some to hasten her out of this life, and I do not think her mind is changed. I heard Cecil treat with her on the matter of the succession and she cried, “God’s blood, would you have me in my own life set my winding sheet before my eye?”

Bess smiled; she could only too easily imagine the queen’s enraged roar when provoked too far by the insistence of her ministers.

But now, Bess, let me talk of you,
Frances’s letter continued.
I wish you would be as great a stranger to Derbyshire as you now are to London. You have been too long away, both from my company and from attendance on the queen. And I must confess to you that of late my mind has been preoccupied with the question of a husband for you. I know how much you loved Will, but you are still a beauty, besides the much else that you have to offer as a wife, and must not waste that precious commodity.

What odd chance, Bess thought, that the matter of her marrying again had been in Frances’s thoughts just when it was in her own.

My husband’s brother Henry Brooke would make you an admirable husband, and nothing would make me happier than to have you as my sister. But there are many other possibilities. You know that John Thynne’s wife died, I am sure. He is a most handsome man and you are old friends, I know. Would he not be a fine match?

Perhaps it was a portent, Bess thought, that Frances wanted to play matchmaker. And whether or not she got a husband there, she did miss London and the excitement of being at court.

* * *

“
O
F COURSE YOU SHOULD GO BACK TO COURT,”
J
ENNY SAID WHEN
Bess told her about Frances’s letter, and as Bess looked into her sister’s blue eyes and heard the warmth and assurance in her voice, she knew that it was the right thing to do. “Bess, you are made to be married. And you will find no suitable husband anywhere but London.”

“Oh, I shall need so many clothes,” Bess fretted, yanking gowns from the coffers in her bedchamber. “Ruffs. Ruffs are all the rage, Frances writes—they are growing, like plants it seems, and these puny things of mine will not do.”

“Then ruffs you shall have. My dearest sister, you never lacked the ability to dress yourself at the height of fashion, and certainly in Lady Cobham and your other friends you have the most expert advisors in what is needful.”

“You are right,” Bess said, yanking off her cap and gazing into the mirror. “Frances will tell me what is just the thing.”

Tenth of August, 1566—Warwickshire

“That,” Bess said, as Kenilworth Castle loomed ahead, “is a very fine place indeed.”

“It should be,” Frances Brooke replied. “Robert Dudley has been carrying out building works since the queen gave him the place, in anticipation of this visit.”

“And it was almost for naught.”

The queen had nearly decided not to take the court to Kenilworth on the summer progress as originally planned when she got wind that rumors were flying that the visit presaged an announcement that she would marry Robert Dudley, but in the end he had convinced her to come.

“I will welcome a few days’ respite from traveling,” Bess said. “And I hear that Dudley has some exquisite entertainments planned.”

Bess was once more attending Elizabeth, in company with Frances Brooke, Blanche Perry, and Dorothy Stafford. She was happy to be among her old friends, but the court’s sojourn could not help but remind her of the idyllic days she had spent with Will during the progress five summers before. At least, she thought, it had been idyllic before Kate Grey had thrown a grenade into her face with the disclosure of her secret marriage and pregnancy.

How much had changed since then and how little, she mused. Then she had been newly married and had thought to spend the rest of her years with Will. Now she had lost him. She was flattered that she was receiving attention from several gentlemen of wealth and standing, but meant to weigh her opportunities carefully before she committed herself to another marriage.

The matter of the queen’s marriage was no more settled than it had been five years earlier, nor was the question of who would succeed her. And the queen was now almost three and thirty. Time was running out, Bess thought. But perhaps that was what Elizabeth intended.

Robert Dudley was waiting before Kenilworth Castle as the queen’s entourage arrived. He bowed low and the ranks of his household ranged behind him sank into bows and curtsies to the ground.

“Your Majesty, I bid you welcome,” Dudley said, and then stepped forward to help the queen from her litter.

“You spoke the truth when you said you had been busy with improvements, Robin,” she said, gazing at the towering walls of the gatehouse. “This is new since I was last here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, and much more.” He took the queen’s arm. “Allow me to lead you to your apartments.”

They made their way through the gatehouse and courtyard and into a fine Italianate building of sand-colored stone, tall windows sparkling in the sun.

“Beautiful,” Bess said to Frances as they followed behind. “I shall be quite happy here, I think.”

The queen’s bedchamber and withdrawing chamber were flooded with sunlight, breaking into bright shards on the gleaming honey-colored planks of the floor. Bess admired the high ornamented chimney pieces rising from the mantels above the fireplaces to the brightly painted panels of the ceiling. The plasterwork was lovely, she thought, and decided she would speak to Smythson about adding something similar to the best chamber at Chatsworth.

“You have outdone yourself, Robin,” the queen said, turning to inspect the furnishings. “You know just what I like, better than I do myself, I think.”

* * *

T
HAT EVENING, THE GROUNDS OF THE CASTLE WERE ILLUMINATED
by hundreds of torches and candles flickering in the shadowed depths of the summer night. Supper was followed by a masque, with a faerie queen rising out of the small lake, and then by music and dancing. Bess thought she had never seen anything so enchanting. She loved Chatsworth, but oh, to have such a house as this!

The queen appeared to be as enthralled as she, smiling up at Dudley as they danced and laughing at something he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

Henry Brooke, the brother of Lizzie and brother-in-law of Frances, appeared at Bess’s elbow.

“A magical night, is it not?”

He was resplendent in a new doublet of cream-colored satin sparkling with gold embroidery, an ostrich plume curling down from his hat. He was a most handsome man, Bess thought, somewhat of the appearance of Robert Dudley, and she did enjoy his company very much.

“Like nothing I have ever seen,” she replied. “The Earl of Leicester has shown himself to be a master at entrancing queen and court. Look, not a sour face in sight.”

“You’re right.” Henry smiled. “Will you increase my enjoyment of this night and favor me with the next dance, my lady?”

The volta was next. It allowed the gentlemen the opportunity to show off their athletic leaps and to hoist their partners high into the air, to the delighted cries of the crowd. The Earl of Oxford, just turned sixteen, kicked high as he capered, his cape flying out behind him. Bess had taken note of him over the weeks of the progress and observed him to be courtly, bright, and witty as well as handsome. Yes, he would make an admirable husband for Bessie, she thought. She would have to speak to Cecil. But not just now; Cecil’s daughter was ill with smallpox, preventing the court’s planned gest at his home.

“Excellently done, sir!” the queen cried as Henry Brooke circled Bess and lifted her, laughing, above his head.

Bess felt giddy with the dancing and the aura of love and possibility in the air. She danced on and on, with Henry Brooke, with Robert Dudley, with the Earl of Shrewsbury, with Lord Darcy. She couldn’t recall when she had enjoyed herself so, or felt so young.

At last the party broke up and Bess and the queen’s other ladies attended her as she prepared for bed. Bess, standing behind the queen, unpinned the ruff from around her neck and was about to turn away when the queen spoke.

“I declare, Lady St. Loe, you were much at the center of the gentlemen’s attention this night. It appears that you will have a fourth husband e’er I have one.”

Bess was startled and glanced into the mirror before which Elizabeth sat. Had there been an edge to the queen’s voice, or was she in a good humor?

“No, surely, Your Majesty,” she protested, “you might have any man in the world for the asking.”

“Think you so?” The queen’s eyes met Bess’s in her reflection. She pulled off her earrings and dropped them onto the table before her. “Perhaps. But look what it profits a woman to have a husband. The Scottish queen defied me to marry Henry Darnley, and now, how soon after, he has murdered her poor friend and secretary before her eyes. I hear that she bitterly regrets the marriage and wishes to be rid of him. Might I not suffer the same thing were I to marry?”

Bess could not quite read the queen’s mood. She longed to glance at Frances, who stood nearby, but the queen’s gaze held hers, hawklike.