A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  Syntlo murmured his sympathy and pursued the subject closest to his heart. “What is Her Majesty up to these days?”

  Shrewsbury tried for a light note. “She's not married yet, if that's what you're asking.” When Syntlo didn't laugh, he continued, “The council has proposed Arch-duke Charles of Austria. An Anglo-Spanish alliance would be a balance against the French.”

  Syntlo closed his eyes as a spasm of pain cut into him. When it eased he smiled. “Elizabeth plays the marriage card with such adroit skill.”

  “It all boils down to religion, playing the Catholics against the Protestants. It's an act she and Cecil perform with ease.”

  Bess returned with a footman who carried a heavy silver tray holding steaming goblets of cider. She carried a cup to Will that contained a mixture of chamomile, balm, and opium. He was no longer able to eat, but the posset eased the agony in his belly.

  She handed Shrewsbury a goblet of cider and took her own to the fireplace. He watched her push the poker into the glowing coals and wait for it to get red-hot. He took his goblet over to her and held it out. When she plunged in the hot poker, the cider hissed and the aroma of spiced apples rose up about them.

  She looked up into his eyes, and in the firelight he saw the mauve shadows of fatigue beneath hers and thought them beautiful. He murmured low, “The winter will pass … spring will come.” She nodded her understanding, and he knew a lump had come into her throat to prevent her from speaking.

  He sipped his cider, wanting to take her in his arms and ease her anguish. He knew he must put space between them for decency's sake. He gulped down the contents of the goblet and set it on the mantelpiece. He glanced over at Syntlo and saw he was beginning to doze. He put his finger to his lips and quietly made his way to the library door.

  Bess followed him, and together they descended Chatsworth's elegant staircase. She waited in silence as the butler handed him his cape and gloves then tactfully moved away.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Cambridge is—” His words halted as she shook her head.

  “Thank you for keeping your promise to me.”

  Sir William St. Loe died in early January, long before the first spring flower could struggle through the cold earth to lift its face to the pale sun. Queen Elizabeth ordered a day of mourning for her faithful captain of the guard and chief butler of England but did not honor him with a state funeral.

  Bess accompanied her husband's body to London. She knew the long trip would be too arduous in the winter weather for her mother and Aunt Marcy, so she asked her sister Jane to go with her. Bess's three sons, all at Eton College, joined their mother for the funeral. Sir William St. Loe was buried in the church of Great St. Helen in Bishopsgate, beside his father, Sir John St. Loe.

  After the interment Bess took her sons to visit their father's grave at St. Botolph's in Aldgate, which was only a stone's throw away from Bishopsgate. Inside her chest, Bess's heart felt heavy as lead. She realized she had never stopped mourning Cavendish, and here she was burying another husband. It all felt so unreal. How on earth had she outlived three husbands? What had she done to deserve life? What had they done to deserve death? Strangely, she remained dry-eyed, but once again she recognized the numb feeling that engulfed her, turning her emotions to stone.

  By the time she got home to Chatsworth, Bess was exhausted. She retreated to her own private suite of rooms, which she loved so much, yet found she could neither sleep nor eat. The frightening part was that she could not even feel.

  She reread Syntlo's will. Bess knew he had left her all his lands and manors in Somerset and Gloucestershire, but the great ruined monastery and lands at Glastonbury were a complete surprise. They had been married for four and a half years, and because of his dedicated duty to the queen, they had spent much of that time apart. Bess looked down at the will again. Syntlo had been devoted to her. Though she had had a genuine affection for him, he had loved her far more deeply than she had loved him. Why didn't she feel guilt? Sorrow? Anger? Dear God in heaven, why didn't she feel something?

  * * *

  Downstairs, the Earl of Shrewsbury offered his condolences to Bess's mother and Aunt Marcy. Jane rushed upstairs to inform Bess of his arrival.

  “Give Lord Talbot my apologies, Jane. I don't wish to see anyone.”

  “But, Bess, it's the Earl of Shrewsbury. I cannot refuse him.”

  “I can, and have many times,” Bess said without emotion. “Please leave me alone, Jane.”

  Reluctantly, Jane approached the small group in the beautifully appointed receiving room. “My sister sends her profuse apologies, Lord Talbot, but she cannot see anyone this evening.”

  Talbot stared at her as if she were mad. “Did you tell her it was me?”

  Jane flushed with embarrassment. “It's not personal, my lord. Bess has isolated herself.”

  “I assure you it is personal. Would you be good enough to inform her that if she doesn't come down, I shall go up?”

  Jane stood rooted to the floor, while Bess's mother uttered a shocked, “Lord Talbot!”

  Marcella stepped forward with great authority. She knew there had been something secret and intimate between Bess and “Shrew,” as she called him, for some time. “You'd best go up, my lord earl. It will take someone with a will stronger than hers to snap her out of her trance.”

  Shrewsbury needed no urging. He took the stairs two at a time and located Bess's rooms with unerring instinct. He knocked but did not wait for a reply. Without hesitation he opened her chamber door and walked in.

  “Who gave you permission to come up here?” Her voice was remote.

  “I don't ask permission for my actions.”

  She was standing by a tall window, holding something in her hands. The black gown she wore gave her the look of a wraith. As he drew close he was shocked at how pale and bloodless her face looked. He reached out firmly and took the object from her hands. She offered no resistance. He found himself looking down at a gold-filigreed book studded with precious rubies. When he opened the cover, two portraits were inside, one of Bess, the other of William Cavendish.

  “Splendor of God, you are still mourning Cavendish!” He ignored the sharp jealousy that rose up in him, set the book down on an occasional table, and lifted her into his arms. He carried her to a cushioned settle by the fire-place and sat down with her in his lap. With infinite tenderness he cradled her against his heart. “Bess, let go, let go.”

  He stroked her hair, marveling that the firelight turned it to flame beneath his hands, and felt her body shudder. His arms tightened about her, holding her secure, holding her safe, and waited with infinite patience for the ice that froze her heart and her emotions to start to thaw. “You've been strong long enough. Let go … let me be your strength.”

  Her body began to shiver, in spite of the warmth of the fire, and he stroked her back, over and over. Gradually, he felt some of the rigidity leave her. In a little while he heard a low sob, then a long shuddering breath, and finally the floodgates opened, letting out all the dammed-up emotion that had been impossible for her to release until this moment.

  She clung to him for an hour, crying and sobbing, then abruptly she stopped and was racked with a fit of hysterical laughter. Next she shot up from his knee and swept about the room in a terrible temper tantrum that encompassed the gamut of cursing, screaming, and breaking things. The storm was electrifying to the man who witnessed it. It was a magnificent, passionate rampage that made Gertrude's petulant tirades pale into insignificance.

  Then Bess began to talk, confessing all her shortcomings, all the things that covered her with guilt, ending with an about-face, self-righteously defending herself. Finally, she crawled back into his lap and began to cry again.

  Shrewsbury shook his head in tolerant wonder. Bess was the most passionate creature he had ever known, and he loved her beyond reason. He allowed her to cry for two more minutes, then said firmly, “That's enough, my beauty.” He sat her up and
began to unfasten the back of her gown.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Undressing you.”

  Her tear-drenched eyes widened in shock. “You cannot do that!”

  “Don't be utterly ridiculous, of course I can. I'm going to undress you and put you to bed.” He went about the business matter-of-factly, as if he had undressed her every night of her life. Beneath her mourning gown and black petticoats she was wearing the plainest shift he'd ever seen. “Christ, is this some sort of a penance? You'll be wearing sackcloth and ashes next.”

  She didn't laugh but looked at him woefully. He slipped off her stockings and garters with an iron control that amazed him and went to her wardrobe for a bed-gown. He selected a soft lamb's wool that would keep her warm in her big, empty bed. He held it out to the fire for a minute before he thrust her arms into it and pulled it snugly about her middle. Then he swung her up into his arms and carried her through to her adjoining bedchamber. He pulled back the covers, tucked her into bed, then bent to light a fire in the marble fireplace. He set the chimney draught carefully, then went to all four windows and closed the heavy drapes. Outside, it had begun to snow, and he knew it would be a cold ride home. He lit a candle and carried it to the bed. Her eyes were closed in sleep; her lashes, still wet with tears, made dark shadows on her cheeks.

  As he descended the great carved staircase, he saw three apprehensive faces gazing up at him. He knew it must be close to midnight, knew they had heard the screams and the crashes, and knew they expected some sort of explanation. Instead, he quietened their fears. “She's sleeping like a baby. Tomorrow I think she'll be back to her old self.”

  He climbed into the saddle and urged his horse from Chatsworth's warm stables. Suddenly, he didn't mind the snow at all. His blood ran hotly in his veins. The mere thought of Bess would keep the bitter cold at bay.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bess received many letters of genuine condolence, but the ones from her friends and acquaintances in London urged her to return to Court. Most of them offended her sensibilities, and she read them aloud to the women of her family.

  “Just listen to what Anne Herbert writes: There are no better hunting grounds for a husband than here at Court. And listen to this from Lettice Knollys: Do ask Her Majesty to make you a lady-of-the-privy-chamber. At the moment there is only Blanche Parry, Mary Stafford, and myself, and the men at Court are positively randy!”

  “The woman has no decency; hasn't she ever heard of a widow's mourning period?” her mother asked.

  “They are out of fashion at Court. Rich widows are snapped up like trout flies,” Bess explained.

  Marcella remarked, “You will certainly make a very rich prize for some ambitious man, my dear.”

  “I shall never marry again. My money, my manors, and my lands will go to my children. My wealth will not go into a husband's coffers; I worked too damned hard for it.” Besides, there is only one man in the world who makes me feel alive, and he's been married since he was twelve.

  The month of April forced winter to loosen its icy grip, and spring came with a rush. Bess took full advantage of the milder weather and rode out each day inspecting her acres, her tenant farms, and their newly sown crops. Lambs were beginning to dot the rolling hills, and her heart filled with anticipation that wildflowers would soon blanket the meadows.

  Bess was grateful that Shrewsbury had kept a discreet distance, but she knew it would not last. Each time she rode out, she was prepared to encounter him and knew in her heart that sooner or later he would come. The antagonistic relationship they had had for years had undergone a drastic change. He was still the most arrogant man alive, but she had seen the way he looked after his people, had seen the kindness he'd extended to her own tenants, and she knew firsthand his generosity. She finally acknowledged that Lord Talbot was a good man, a fair man, and a kind man. He was moral in every way, except where Bess was concerned. He always contended it was love they felt for each other, while she was adamant that it was lust. But now she began to suspect that her feelings ran too deeply. She must guard her heart against him at all costs—if it was not too late. He had allowed her three months' mourning, and she knew he would come soon.

  Bess was surprised by the contents of a letter she received from her old friend Sir John Thynne. He told her that he was coming to Derbyshire to look at several properties. He wanted to see the finished Chatsworth and hinted that he would like to become her neighbor and renew their longstanding friendship. He told her that he had been considering a property called Abbot Stoke, in Lincolnshire east of Sheffield, but that the Earl of Shrewsbury had outbid him.

  Bess tucked the letter away in her desk until she could think of a polite way to discourage him. She suspected that Sir John had more than friendship in mind. A beam of sunlight fell across her desk, and she realized she was far too restless to stay indoors. She decided to ride over to Meadowpleck and visit Francie and her new husband. Her daughter had been deeply saddened by the loss of her stepfather, and Bess hoped that the lovely spring weather would lift her spirits.

  Heartily sick of wearing black, Bess donned a fuchsia petticoat before covering it with her black riding habit. On her way to the stables, she bent to pick a crocus and Shrewsbury's words came back to her: The winter will pass … spring will come.

  Bess cantered toward the River Dove, breathing in the clear Derbyshire air as if it were the elixir of life. She spotted a baby rabbit and wondered if Francie would make her a grandmother this year. She didn't feel old enough to be a grandmother, but she was thirty-three, older if she admitted the truth.

  She saw a horseman in the distance, and her heart did a somersault. Just for a moment she experienced panic. Should she turn tail and make a run for it? Bess laughed at her own foolishness. He'd give chase immediately and capture the quarry! She must never take the defensive with the compelling devil, or she'd be as powerless as yon baby rabbit.

  She did not lessen her pace until he reined in and stood directly in her path. White teeth flashed in his dark face. “Such an eager welcome—how did you know I was coming, my beauty?”

  Bess lifted her chin. “I'm not your beauty.”

  “You are, you know,” he contradicted.

  “And I had no idea you were coming!”

  “You're a liar, Bess. You knew I'd come; mayhap not today, but soon.”

  Bess knew she must not lose her temper. She was a respectable widow; she would act sedately. Her lashes swept her cheeks. “Lord Talbot, I am in mourning.”

  He laughed out loud. “Your petticoat is showing.”

  “You black devil!” she spat, yanking her riding habit down to cover her boots.

  “No need to pretend with me, Vixen—I know you inside and out.”

  Bess gasped, “You lewd, crude beast!”

  He grinned wickedly. “That's what makes me a perfect match for you, my beauty.”

  Suddenly, Bess began to laugh. “Why do you taunt me apurpose when you know I get angry as fire?”

  “I like to rouse your passion. Anger is part of your passion—the only part I can rouse without making love to you.”

  “Shrew, please stop.”

  “Bess, the open door to freedom lies before you. Surely you have the courage to cross the threshold and come to me?”

  “God in heaven, you're like a pit bull when you want something.”

  “You would no longer be committing adultery, my beauty, so don't give me that excuse.”

  “But you would!” she cried.

  He laughed. “Let me worry about my own sins, Bess.” He dismounted and held up his arms to her. “Come, walk with me by the river. I want us to talk.”

  More than anything in the world she wanted to walk with him, talk with him, but she knew that if he put his arms about her and kissed her, passion would overwhelm them. “I will walk with you if you promise not to touch me and if you give me your word we will have a normal conversation that isn't unseemly.”

  His pierc
ing blue eyes searched her face intently for a full minute to see if she was serious. Then he dropped his arms, allowing her to dismount on her own, and began a normal conversation. “I bought a piece of land in Lincolnshire—thought I might try my hand at building a house like Chatsworth.”

  “Abbot Stoke! Sir John Thynne told me in his letter you outbid him. He's interested in buying property in these parts.”

  “God damn Thynne, the only thing he's interested in is you!” His hands closed over her shoulders and he shook her. “Promise me you won't marry again! Christ, they'll all be sniffing about you like dogs after a bitch in heat.”

  Bess clenched her teeth. “This is unseemly!”

  “Fuck unseemly! You'll have so many proposals, you'll be married again before the year's out!”

  “Shrew, don't insult my intelligence. I shall never leg-shackle myself again! The moment I marry, all my wealth and lands become the property of my husband in the eyes of the law, and I know the law very well. What is mine I intend to keep for my lifetime, then it passes to my children. Every manor, every acre, every penny!”

  “Thank God you have decided to use your brains. Marriage is like prison, a life sentence. It eats your soul; it's hell on earth.”

  “I'm sorry yours has been like that, Shrew. It can be hell, or it can be heaven.”

  His hand cupped her cheek. “Bess, I want my piece of heaven—I know I'll have it only with you.”

  She covered his hand with hers and held it while she touched her lips to his palm in an intimate gesture. How stubbornly blind she had been. As surely as she was his weakness, he was hers. Yet he was her strength too. He was everything she needed, everything she wanted. She could no longer go on denying it to herself. He had known for years it was inevitable; what had taken her so long?