A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  Bess felt the blood drain from her face when she learned he was Shrewsbury's son. His father was the premier earl, almost considered a monarch, north of the Trent. Not only was his father lord lieutenant of Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, and Derbyshire, he owned magnificent Sheffield Castle, not a stone's throw from Bess's home of Hardwick.

  “I'm Robin Dudley.” The other youth stuck out his hand to Bess. “Any friend of Lady Elizabeth's is a friend of mine. Has she given you a nickname yet?”

  Bess finally realized that this young man was the Earl of Warwick's son. He was affable and good-natured, and Bess liked him immediately.

  “Vixen would suit her temper, I think.”

  “Who the devil asked you?” Bess spat at Talbot, giving a fine display of that temper.

  Elizabeth smiled her approval. “Vixen is good with your coloring, Bess. I call Robin the Gypsy because he's so dark.”

  Bess found Talbot far darker than Robin Dudley. His face was dark-complexioned; his light blue eyes were a startling contrast to his swarthy skin. His long hair was so black that the sunlight gave it a blue sheen. The tall youth was extremely lithe, with long legs and wide shoulders. He held his head high with a natural pride that hinted at arrogance, and he seemed to take it as his due that everyone would treat him with deference.

  “I call Talbot the Old Man because he's been married since he was twelve. Poor George had no say in the matter. They shackled him to the Earl of Rutland's daughter, Gertrude, to safeguard the Talbot wealth.”

  “I pity the lady.” Bess had taken an instant dislike to him and could not help goading him.

  “Oh, they don't live together as man and wife yet. Gertrude isn't old enough to be bedded,” Elizabeth explained.

  “He'll be an old man by the time he gets some!” Dudley said coarsely, and Talbot cuffed him across the ear.

  Bess was appalled at the sexual content of their conversation. It was extremely inappropriate to speak of such matters in front of the young princess, yet the Lady Elizabeth didn't seem shocked in the least.

  “Lewd talk is disrespectful to ladies,” Bess said primly. “Hell's teeth, she must be up from the country, with such prudish ideas,” Talbot jibed.

  “She's from Derbyshire, the same place as you, Old Man.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Hardwick, did you say?”

  “Well, I think you are charming, Mistress Hardwick,” Robin Dudley said frankly.

  “And I think you are unique,” Elizabeth added.

  “Well, at least her name is apt,” Talbot drawled. “She certainly makes my wick hard.”

  Bess gasped and raised her hand to slap his insolent face.

  “Go ahead, Vixen. I'd like an excuse to give you a lesson in manners.”

  Dudley guffawed, “Christ, we know what you'd like to give her. We can see the sparks flying between you!”

  Bess spun on her heel and began to march from the maze.

  “Doesn't she know she can't leave without your permission?” Robin was choking with laughter.

  “Doesn't know and doesn't give a damn—she's absolutely priceless,” Elizabeth declared.

  Bess prayed fervently that she was going in the right direction. If she took a wrong turn in this infernal maze and made a bloody fool of herself, she would simply die!

  On the short barge ride back to Chelsea Palace, the talk was all of the king and the young Prince Edward. Bess sat apart, thinking of the Lady Elizabeth. The king's daughter had every advantage, while she was just a servant—as she had been so rudely reminded—and yet Bess realized she would not change places with her. Though the princess had palaces and jewels and servants untold, Elizabeth's future was no less uncertain than her own. If she was to realize her ambition, she would have to hold her own against great odds. But she believes in herself, just as I do, thought Bess, and if you believe something with all your mind and all your heart and soul, someday it shall come to be.

  Bess thought of William Cavendish, and her heart skipped a beat. How she wished he were still at Chelsea so she could tell him all about her encounter with Elizabeth Tudor. How exceedingly fortunate she was to have met such a man and how lucky to have caught his fancy. He had warned her that his business in Dover would take some time, and she wondered how he would see her when he returned. Bess heaved a great sigh. She would leave it up to him to contrive something. Rogue Cavendish was a man of the world and would find a way to get what he wanted. How exciting that he wanted her!

  Bess went over his words again for the hundredth time: Sweetheart, when I return I'll have a question to ask you regarding a more permanent relationship. William was going to ask her to be his wife, Bess hoped and prayed. She was certain she wanted no other husband but him. With resolution she pushed away a nagging doubt. Surely the question wouldn't involve becoming his mistress? Not when she had made it plain that she would not allow him to seduce her and that she wanted a respectable marriage? No, though he was nicknamed Rogue, he had not pressed her for more than kisses. Mistress Elizabeth Cavendish! It sounded so right, and deep in her bones Bess honestly believed she was destined to become the wife of William Cavendish.

  Late that night, before she went to bed, Bess decided to write home and tell them all about her visit to Chelsea Palace as the guest of Lady Frances Grey. Bess was a prolific letter writer, who had already written to her mother and Aunt Marcy about the Greys, but now that she had met Princess Elizabeth and visited Hampton Court Palace, she couldn't wait to put it all down on paper.

  Bess wrote several paragraphs and then paused with the quill end between her teeth. Should she tell them about William Cavendish? She was dying to describe him to her family and impress them with the importance of his position in the king's treasury. But once she mentioned his name, they would immediately write back to ask if she and William had made wedding plans. Bess thought perhaps she had better wait until she had something definite to tell them.

  In her decisive hand she wrote: Chelsea Palace rises above the Thames like a glittering, fairy-tale castle, filled with royal treasures preserved through the centuries. I have a great passion for London and its magnificent noble houses, where I have met many gentlemen from Court circles. My ambition is set on making a good marriage, and I intend to have a great household of my own, where you can come to stay. I wish with all my heart that you could visit these grand places with me, to see the Tudor courtiers bedecked in velvets and jewels, to listen to the music as it floats down from the minstrels' galleries and be waited upon by the liveried footmen. For me, it is like a dream come true. I long to share with you all the wonders of this glorious city, and vow that someday I shall!

  She pictured Derbyshire in her mind's eye. It was much farther north than London, with a harsher climate. It was probably already cold at home. Though she loved Derbyshire and missed it, she was happy to be in London. It was the center of the universe, and the magnificent Tudor Court was the jewel at that center. As she finished her letter and snuffed her candles, she couldn't believe how lucky she was to be a part of it.

  The following day was a busy one for Bess. She packed for Lady Zouche and her daughters because they were returning to London on the morrow. In the afternoon, when the ladies retired for a nap, Bess seized the opportunity to go for a walk and explore the wealthy village of Chelsea.

  She strolled slowly past Syon House, owned by the Earl of Warwick, and marveled that she had actually met one of his sons, Robin Dudley. She couldn't remember how many there were, but she knew Warwick had a large brood. She studied Syon House with a critical eye. Built from dark gray stone, it was huge and square, but that's all that could be said for it. The house was downright ugly. If she had Warwick's money, she would have built something beautiful as well as functional. Why didn't people use a little imagination when they built a house that would be a lasting monument down through the centuries?

  Bess followed a footpath down to the river, watching a pair of swans glide along past the bank. They were such regal birds, these royal swans,
and far more numerous here in Chelsea than in the city of London. Through the trees Bess glimpsed another imposing mansion and quickened her steps when she heard the sound of laughter from the rolling lawns that dipped down to the Thames.

  As she emerged from behind a huge stand of fuchsia rhododendrons, Bess realized that she had intruded upon some boys who were swimming naked in the river. Two of the young lads squealed when they saw a female, and they dashed to grab towels and shirts to cover their nakedness, then ran laughing and shrieking up toward the mansion.

  Bess stood rooted to the spot. Because of the boys she had failed to notice the young man who was lying on the grassy bank sunning himself. It was George Talbot. He was stark naked! Bess immediately realized that this must be Shrewsbury House and the males were the Talbot brothers.

  “Mistress Hard-wick.” He emphasized her surname in a suggestive way that made her blush profusely, yet Talbot was not the slightest bit embarrassed to display himself nude before her. In a leisurely manner he stood up to face her, making no effort to cover himself with his towel.

  Shrewsbury's heir had the piercing glance of an eagle. In his dark face his ice blue eyes were startling. Bess decided not to retreat with an apology, because the arrogant look he threw her was a direct challenge.

  “You are trespassing,” he said coldly.

  “Forgive us our trespasses, Lord God Almighty!”

  “Blasphemous as well as insolent.”

  “Servants don't know their places these days.” Bess lifted her chin aggressively.

  “You are right. Your attitude should be respectful in the presence of your betters.”

  Bess was blazing mad. She tossed her head and swept him from head to foot with a glare. “I have no betters, and respect must be earned.”

  “Look your fill.” His eyes mocked her, dared her.

  Slowly, Bess let her glance slide across his hirsute chest, then down his belly to his groin. Suddenly, his phallus thickened and hardened and stood out rigid from his lithe body.

  “Do you like what you see?” he drawled confidently.

  Bess was stunned. She had never seen a naked male before, let alone one with a jutting arousal. “You look like a river rat,” she disparaged.

  “Vixen!”

  “Knave! Fool! Black devil!”

  “Hell's teeth, you don't even swear well.”

  Bess took a deep breath and spat, “Whoreson!”

  “Bravo, you have a temper worthy of a lady.”

  “I am a lady, Talbot!”

  “Never in a million years; your breasts are too big, Mistress Tits.”

  “A pox upon you,” cursed Bess, turning on her heel and leaving. It was the second day in a row he had made her retreat, and she hated him for it.

  That night there was a terrible thunder and lightning storm, and Bess was up half the night comforting the Zouche girls. Even the placid Frances Grey became upset when her daughters, Jane and Catherine, screamed with hysterics and cried that it was the end of the world. Dawn arrived to prove them wrong, but it was the end of summer. The temperature plummeted, and the north wind stripped the beautiful gardens of Chelsea with a vengeance.

  On the barge ride back to London, Margaret Zouche praised Bess's forethought in packing warm cloaks for them. “We would perish out on this river today, Bess, if it wasn't for your efficiency. I never had anyone who planned so well. I warrant you could pack up an entire household in a day.”

  When they arrived home Lady Zouche ordered that all the fires be lighted and set the cook to preparing some hearty soup to warm the cockles of the travelers' hearts.

  A letter from Derbyshire had arrived for Bess in her absence, but she slipped it into her pocket to read in privacy when all her household tasks had been completed. In no time at all she had unpacked for Lady Margaret and her daughters and found time to check up on her young friend Robert Barlow. Bess was distressed to find that the page had caught cold and was coughing his head off. “Rob, when did this happen?”

  “I only started coughing today, Bess. The house got so cold, and the butler refused to order the fires lit until her ladyship arrived.”

  “Bloody servants need a flogging. When I have servants of my own, I won't countenance high-handedness. Before you go to bed tonight I'll bring you a posset. One my aunt Marcy taught me to make with sack and milk and herbs.”

  It had been a long day, and when Bess finally climbed the stairs to her chamber, she could hear Robert's racking cough from up in his attic room. She went back down to the kitchens to get some camphor grease from the medicinal cupboard. Then she climbed to the attic and rubbed the youth's chest and back with the concoction.

  He pulled his flannel nightshirt on over his head and sat on the side of the bed. “I love you, Bess,” Robert Barlow whispered.

  “I love you too, Rob. Get under the covers and keep warm. Let's hope you feel better tomorrow.”

  When she was finally in her own chamber, Bess took out the precious letter from home and broke the seal. It was from her older sister, Jane, and Bess was surprised at the news.

  Dearest Bess:

  I am to be married soon to Godfrey Boswell, who comes from Gunthwaite in Yorkshire. He is a farmer who has leased land from your friend Robert Barlow's family. I wasn't sure at first, but Godfrey is in need of a wife, and conditions here at home grow desperate. Our stepfather, Ralph Leche, has also been farming land he leased from the Barlows, because Arthur Barlow has been too ill to farm it himself. But Ralph has fallen behind in the rent, and Mother is worried to death. Once I am married I will be one less mouth to feed. To help out, Aunt Marcy has been cooking for the Leches at Chats-worth, and some days the food she brings home is the only thing the children have to eat. Mother sends her love. We miss you and thank heaven that you found such a fortunate position in London. Your life sounds like a fairy tale.

  Love—Jane

  Bess put the letter down and felt a terrible wave of guilt wash over her. Her parents were in debt, and Jane was sacrificing herself on a farmer named Boswell, while she herself was in love with a man from the Royal Court. She had just returned from Chelsea, where she had actually spoken with Princess Elizabeth Tudor. Jane was right —her life was like a fairy tale!

  SIX

  The weather stayed cold all month, and the wind whipped down the streets of London, making whirlwinds of leaves, dust, and debris. Bess gave Robert Barlow the warm muffler that her aunt Marcy had knitted, but it didn't prevent his cough from turning into bronchitis.

  Bess took over the page's duties and did her best to nurse him with hot soup and chest rubs, but eventually she had no option but to speak with Lady Zouche. “Ma'am, I don't wish to alarm you, but Robert is quite ill. It's more than just a cough, I'm afraid.”

  “Oh, dear, it's such a heavy responsibility to take these young people into service to give them a start in life. Sometimes it works out well, as in your case, Bess, but often the youngsters are more trouble than they are worth. You are very good with herbs and such, can't you dose him with something?”

  “I've made him possets and rubbed him with camphor, but it hasn't helped. Lady Margaret, I think he needs a doctor.”

  “Heaven forbid, you don't think it could be plague?” she cried in alarm.

  “The weather is too cold for the plague, but he could have some other contagion.”

  “I'll send for the doctor, and in the meantime keep him isolated upstairs, well away from the girls.”

  When Dr. Belgrave arrived, Bess escorted him up to Robert Barlow's attic room while Lady Zouche hovered at the door to the tiny chamber. The boy's fair cheeks showed two bright red spots of fever, and Belgrave tapped his chest and examined his sputum. The doctor produced some packets of fever powder and instructed Bess to administer them with water. Then he turned to the woman at the door. “A word with you in private, if I may, Lady Zouche.”

  Margaret escorted the doctor down the stairs to her own private sitting room and closed the door. Bess went down immed
iately and put her ear to the keyhole.

  “The boy is from Derbyshire, Doctor; I employ him as a page. He's always had a delicate look about him.”

  “Hmmph.” Belgrave cleared his throat. “He's fevered at the moment, but the powders I left should take care of that. However”—he cleared his throat once again—“in my learned opinion, the boy suffers from a chronic distemper of the lungs. He won't make old bones, and I strongly suggest you get rid of him.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear.” Lady Margaret wrung her hands. “You don't think he could pass it on to me or my daughters, do you, Doctor?”

  “We have made great strides in medical science in this century, Lady Zouche, but the truth is we still don't know enough about these illnesses. He could recover, of course, but he'll always be a weakling. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  Bess ran back upstairs; she had heard more than she wanted to know. Poor Robert, whatever would become of him? She was so thankful she hadn't told him that his father was too ill to work his own fields. What was the point in adding worry to his woes?

  Within a couple of days Robert Barlow's fever abated, but the youth looked far from well when Lady Zouche summoned him and Bess to her sitting room. Though he was only fifteen, he had shot up like a gangly weed this past year and he towered above Bess's five feet, three inches.

  Since Bess had heard the doctor advise Lady Zouche to get rid of Robert, she knew he was going to be sent home, and she braced herself to help her young friend through his dismissal.

  Margaret Zouche did not get too close, and her face was set in a rigid mask of determination. “Master Barlow, I am thankful your fever has been cured, but Dr. Belgrave believes you should be home with your family in Derbyshire.” She withdrew a letter from her pocket. “I have written to your mother explaining to her that you are returning home. I will send you by my own coach, and I will ask Bess to accompany you.”

  The look on Robert's face turned to relief; the look on Bess's face was pure astonishment. She realized she should have seen it coming, but she hadn't. Who else was there to nurse the semi-invalid and see that he arrived home alive? Bess saw that Lady Zouche was awaiting her compliance. One part of her selfishly wanted to refuse. When William Cavendish returned to London, Bess wanted to be here to welcome him. A glance at Robert Barlow's face melted her hard heart. “I will accompany Master Barlow, my lady.”