“And yet it seems it will never end!” Bess sighed. “Outside as well as in. The orchard is coming along well, but come summer I plan to put in a pleasure garden, fish pools, and an entrance lodge. And there’s work to be done on the land we acquired last year, as well.”
“How is William’s health?”
Bess followed her mother’s glance to her husband, who stood in conversation with William Paulet, and a shadow of worry darkened her mind as it did so often when she looked upon him. He had been extremely ill during the previous winter, unable to eat because his stomach was in such great pain, and far too weak to ride to London until summer. Even then, they had canceled a planned visit to their old friends John and Christian Thynne at Longleat.
Work was more than half the problem, as far as Bess was concerned. When William had become treasurer of the king’s chamber accounts upon Edward’s accession there was a deficit of nearly two thousand pounds, and he had struggled with that burden ever since.
Now, with the queen allowing England to be drawn into her husband King Philip’s war with France, the press for money was even more acute, for somehow those thousands of foot soldiers and hundreds of horse must be paid for. William had refused to provide the crown with the loan of a hundred pounds that was being demanded from landowners across the country, but the pressure was relentless and he tossed and turned in the night, or got up to pore over account books and write letters by candlelight.
“He is better just now,” Bess told her mother, not willing to show the depth of her concern. She sought to turn the conversation to another subject. “What a grief to hear of the death of George Zouche.”
“Yes. I sent Lady Zouche a hamper of honey and other things from Hardwick. I will always be grateful for the start they gave you.”
Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on Bess’s cheek, and Bess kissed her, feeling comforted as always in her presence. Having her mother only a few hours’ ride away was another reason she was happy to be living at Chatsworth.
Late that evening, when the guests were gone and Bess had checked that the shutters were closed and the doors locked, she mounted the stairs, ready to climb into the soft warmth of the great bed. William sat in his nightshirt, his feet bare, staring into the darkness before him.
“What’s amiss, love?” Bess asked. “You’ll catch your death; get under the covers.”
He started as if he had not heard her come in and passed a hand over his forehead as though to ease a headache. Perhaps the day’s excitement had been too wearing for him, Bess thought, chiding herself that she had not noticed earlier how tired he was looking.
“Are you feeling ill? Shall I make you a nice warm posset?”
“No, it’s not my gut.” He looked at her and she thought he looked more worried than she had ever seen him. “William Paulet says that my chamber accounts have been audited—going back eleven years!—and I am out by almost six thousand pounds. I will be summoned to report. To explain.”
Bess was staggered at the vast amount, and baffled. William was so methodical, so careful.
“But how can that be? And why do they seize on your accounts?”
“It’s not just mine. The queen seeks to wring every penny she can from the government, in service of the war. But I fear that she wishes me gone, and will use this as an excuse to remove me from my office.”
“Surely you can put your accounts straight if they are out.”
“It will be a monstrous task. There have been times when I have paid for needful expenses myself as the chamber accounts had not the money, and other times when I borrowed, only to repay the money shortly. And Thomas Knot kept the books much of the time—all those months when I was ill last year—and Paulet said he disappeared when the audit began. I hardly know how to begin.”
Bess’s heart ached to see the despair and exhaustion etching his face.
“I will help you,” she said. “You have taught me well how to keep accounts. We’ll sort it out.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, as she coaxed him under the bedclothes. “Oh, Bess, that all my work should come to ruin in this way.”
If William was required to repay six thousand pounds it would be disastrous, but Bess refused to countenance that possibility.
“No ruin,” she murmured, stroking his head and kissing him. “We’ll write to the queen. All will be well, you’ll see.”
Eighteenth of August, 1557—Chatsworth, Derbyshire
The household had been in an uproar since the previous day, when Bess had received William’s letter from London. He would shortly be called before the Star Chamber to answer for the errors in the privy chamber accounts, and he begged that Bess would come to him.
I need your clear head, my good Bess, he had written, and your steady hand and heart with me now in this time of trouble. I have been working day and night to prepare fair copies of the rough journal books of the accounts, but I fear I will not finish and at moments I stop and sit and stare and wonder if all my labor is to no avail. I pray you fly to me as soon as you may.
Bess wanted to reach London as quickly as possible and so would travel light, but still that meant two footmen, a guide, and nurses for six-year-old Harry, whose presence she thought would cheer William, and baby Lucres. Clothes were gathered, baskets and saddlebags were packed, instructions given for the running of the household in her absence.
“Why can’t I go to London?” Frankie pouted.
“Sweetheart, you will come another time,” Bess said, stooping to tuck a stray golden curl back into her daughter’s cap. “Harry has not been to London since he was a baby. And I must haste to your father and cannot take you all. Besides, I need you to help your Aunt Jenny look after your little sisters and brothers and to make sure that all is well, just like a grown-up lady with her own household.”
She was relieved to see Frankie’s face brighten. “We will be back as soon as we may,” she said, kissing her daughter’s cheek. “And your father will be so proud to know what a capable big girl you are.”
The party set off at dawn the next day. The journey to London, more than a hundred and fifty miles, could easily take a week but Bess was determined to be at William’s side as soon as she could. She had always regarded him as unflaggingly steady and strong, and the fear that she read between his words terrified her. Six thousand pounds. However could they come up with the money if the inquiry didn’t go well? And what effect would it have on William’s health and state of mind if he should lose his position?
We will prevail, she thought, glancing back at the retinue straggling behind her. We must prevail.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ninth of October, 1557—London
MY LADY, THE STAR CHAMBER HAS SENT BACK SIR WILLIAM’S books.” William’s secretary John Bestenay looked apologetic as he put his head in at the door of her withdrawing chamber.
“Have you told Sir William?”
“No, my lady. He is asleep.”
Bess went to their bedchamber but at the sight of William changed her mind about waking him. His breath was labored and he was gray with exhaustion. She would look at the correspondence herself and determine how to proceed.
Bestenay hovered nearby as Bess untied the ledgers from their bundle. In the weeks since Bess had arrived in London, William had labored to make the privy chamber accounts for the last decade tidy and clear, setting forth a list of the many allowances he was due and expenditures that had not been clearly recorded. Meanwhile, she had seen to the organizing of the household, laying in stocks of food and drink, candles and soap, all the things that were needed to make the rented house a comfortable haven. But despite her care, William was desperately ill. So much so that he had written to the Star Chamber that he would not be able to attend the hearing scheduled for the next day in person and begging them to take into consideration that he had been deceived by Thomas Knot, who had apparently taken more than a hundred pounds from William’s own purse as well as money from the privy chamber accounts.
A letter lay atop the stack of William’s ledgers, and Bess opened it with trembling fingers. Her eyes raced over the greeting and preamble, looking for the meat of the matter. Surely, she told herself, the Star Chamber would acknowledge that William was in the right and that his explanations were all that had been needed.
But at the bottom of the paper was set forth a number that made her heart stop: £5237, 5s, ¾d. And the instruction, If it please you, acknowledge that this sum remains to be paid, entering it in the latest of the ledgers with your signature. She let the paper drop from her hands.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “Five thousand pounds and more.” She and William had an income of about five hundred pounds a year. To repay five thousand pounds would surely mean the loss of Chatsworth, of all they had worked so hard to possess.
“We can still fight it,” Bestenay said, reading over the letter. “They write, ‘If by reason of your sickness you cannot attend in person to answer the further particulars of the said account, you may send one or two of your clerks, or such other as you think good, by your letter of attorney, to do all such things for you as the case shall require.’ I will go tomorrow. But we must needs put our heads together and prepare an accounting of all the sums Sir William has expended on behalf of the crown for which he has not been recompensed.”
“He lost armor and equipment worth more than two hundred pounds that was sent on ahead of him to Boulogne and was never returned when King Henry stayed him from going.”
“Good. And surely there is more.”
Bess looked at Bestenay in gratitude. He had served William well and faithfully for twenty years, and now he stood with them when they needed him most. “I thank you,” she said. “What would we do without you?”
When William woke, Bess showed him the letter, glad to be able to soften it with the battle plan that Bestenay had suggested. The three of them worked into the night, and at length had drafted a letter setting forth expenditures of more than four thousand, five hundred pounds: Fifteen hundred pounds that William had personally paid to servants of King Henry, King Edward, and Queen Mary. More than a thousand pounds of unpaid wages and expenses during his service in Ireland. Three months of pay never received for inventorying the wardrobe of the robes. Money promised by King Henry and King Edward but never paid. And a thousand marks expended to raise men to ride to the aid of Queen Mary against John Dudley.
Bess’s stomach fluttered with anxiety at that entry. She recalled William’s words of three years earlier. If any have reason to ask, I shall say that I was riding to the aid of Queen Mary. And none can prove that was not my aim.
But William’s mind was on their present difficulties, and he forged ahead with the letter. He would satisfy whatever amount the Star Chamber would decide he owed, he wrote, by selling properties and goods.
“But they shall know what case I am in,” he said, looking more determined than Bess had seen him in weeks. He took up the pen and she read over his shoulder as he wrote on a new sheet of paper:
I, Her Majesty’s right obedient servant, ready every hour to take my leave of this world, do in the name of my poor wife and my miserable and innocent children, appeal by your honorable lordships unto Her Majesty, heart in mouth, for her most gracious protection and deference, if my whole house and family are to be saved from submersion. Your right humble, meek, and poor sick man, William Cavendish.
The next day Bestenay returned from the hearing before the Star Chamber hopeful, but with no definite news.
“They will take under advisement all that we have submitted and render a judgment soon.”
“Then there is hope,” William said. He was overcome by a fit of coughing that shook his body, and Bess pulled the bedclothes higher and tucked them tight against his chest.
“While there is life, there is hope,” she told him firmly. “Sure your years of service to the crown will not be forgotten.”
* * *
THREE DAYS LATER WILLIAM TOOK A TURN FOR THE WORSE AND Bess almost forgot about the Star Chamber in the face of her overwhelming anxiety. She summoned Dr. Bartlett, who had attended her after Willie’s birth. He bled William and sent his assistant back with several medicinal compounds, but nothing seemed to help. William writhed in pain and could not keep food down, and first was cold and pallid and then consumed by fever.
On the evening of the twenty-fifth of October, Bess knelt by William’s bedside, holding his hand and praying that he would recover. He was unconscious, his face contorted with agitation as he muttered incoherently, as if he were having a nightmare. Terrified, Bess put her hand to his forehead and stroked his face, and was relieved that he became calmer. She could almost believe that he was only sleeping instead of hovering on the edge of death.
Dear God in Thy infinite mercy, give me the patience to submit to what Thou wouldst have be. But I know not how I will live without this man at my side. Help him, Heavenly Father. Restore his health and spirit, I beg Thee.
William stirred and his eyelids fluttered open.
“My own one,” Bess whispered.
“Bess.” His voice was weak. “I am so tired. Stay with me while I sleep again.”
“Gladly, my love.” She kissed his hand, and he sighed and closed his eyes. She watched the moon rise outside the window, a golden crescent hanging in the black autumn sky. His breathing was ragged and Bess recalled that poor Robbie had sounded even so just before the end. Fear rose within her, and she tried to tamp it down.
Memories of her life with William flooded her mind. Their first conversation, when he had offered to help her fight for her widow’s dower. His counsel as they had prepared for court. The pride and affection in his eyes when she had triumphed. His tenderness when she had given herself to him on their wedding night. His tears of joy when first he held baby Frankie. How they had first stood together at Chatsworth, looking over the land, imagining the house that they would build, a fitting inheritance for Henry, their son and heir. His unceasing work and planning and care on her behalf and that of their children. Step by step, connection by connection, laying the stones of their future just as the laborers had built Chatsworth.
How could she carry on without him?
William’s breathing slowed and then stopped. Bess’s heart lurched. She rose to her feet and peered at his face. He took another laborious breath but his eyes were closed and she sensed that he was drifting beyond her reach now. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek as she bent her head in prayer.
Dear Lord, if Thou must take him from me, let him suffer no more but go to Thy bosom in peace.
He exhaled, and she raised her head to look at the beloved face, still of this world, but barely. She kissed his hand, wet with her tears. Another breath, and then he lay motionless. She counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five . . . Another breath came, but shallower than the last. Once more she counted, longer this time. Another breath, almost no more than a catch in his throat, and then a sigh. And then his chest was still and he breathed no more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tenth of April, 1558, Easter Sunday—Chatsworth, Derbyshire
THE EASTER SERVICE WAS OVER BUT BESS HAD WANTED TO remain in the church by herself and had asked her mother, Jenny, and Aunt Marcella to take the children home so that she could think and pray. Now, on her knees on the prie-dieu, with the chill rising from the stone floor of the church, she realized that she was utterly exhausted in body and spirit. She wondered if she would be able to find the energy to rise to her feet. Perhaps she would just stay there until someone came to find her or she died where she knelt.
The nearly six months since William’s death had been the most difficult time of her life. He had not yet been laid in the earth of the churchyard at St. Botolph-without-Aldersgate, near his first wife and dead babies, when she had learned that all his labors to straighten out the privy chamber accounts and his appeals to the queen and Star Chamber had been in vain. On his behalf, she now owed the crown more than five t
housand pounds. The only way that she could pay it would be to sell Chatsworth, but that would mean the loss of her children’s inheritance, the loss of all that she and William had worked so hard to build. She had tried to think what he would advise her to do.
“Wait. And see what may change.” Those were the words she could hear him speaking, and so she waited.
When she was still reeling from the news of the enormous debt, baby Lucres had fallen ill, and after a week that had seemed like an eternity, she had followed her father to the grave. The illness sweeping London had also claimed Bess’s old friend Doll Fitzherbert and her husband Sir John Port. And soon after, William’s daughter Polly had died. The loss of husband, children, and friends compounded into more than the sum of the individual griefs, Bess had felt. She had lain in her bed and wept wretchedly for days, longing to be home in the comfort of Chatsworth, but unable to face the prospect of the weeklong journey and all its hardships.
And then had come the next blow. Parliament was at work on legislation that would allow it to confiscate property to satisfy a debt to the state. Her case would fall squarely within the law and she stood to lose Chatsworth, after all the care that William had taken to ensure that she would be secure after his death. The only comfort was that their son Harry would not fall under the jurisdiction of the Court of Wards, as her brother Jem and poor Robbie Barlow’s brother had.
Bess raised her eyes to the image of the Virgin Mary depicted in the stained glass window above the altar, her white hand raised in benediction, the vivid blue of her gown flowing like water about her. Somehow it had survived the destruction wrought on so many churches throughout the land, and she felt less lonely gazing upon the sad but serene face of Mary, another wife and mother who had survived wrenching losses. Sunlight shone through the glass, falling in brightly colored shards on the gray flagstones.
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