A Woman of Passion Page 7

  “Good, good. I've arranged for you to start out tomorrow. Bess will soon have your belongings packed up.” Lady Margaret dismissed him from her thoughts and turned to Bess. “It will give you a chance to visit with your family, but then you must come straight back to me. By that time Christmas will be only a month away, and you know the preparations that will entail.”

  Bess smiled, relieved that Lady Zouche found her services indispensable. “Oh, indeed I do, Lady Margaret.”

  Before she began packing, Bess dashed off a note to her family in Derbyshire, telling them she was accompanying Robert Barlow home because of his ill health. The post would arrive at least a day before she would, giving them notice of her impending arrival. Bess wanted to write to Cavendish, but she had no address for him. She knew that Lady Frances Grey would pass a letter to him but decided against it in case Lady Zouche found out she was writing to Cavendish and dismissed her. If luck was with her, Bess could be back in London by the time Rogue Cavendish returned from Dover. She smiled a secret smile and made a wish that absence would make his heart grow fonder.

  The next morning, with their baggage tied on top of the carriage, Bess and Robert Barlow set off for Dunstable, the first stop on their journey to Derbyshire. Earlier she had filled a brass foot warmer with hot coals, which she now placed beneath Robert's feet, then tucked the lap robe about him.

  It was slow going until London was left behind, but there were so many places of interest to see from the coach windows that time did not lag. Once they were in the countryside, Bess kept up a running conversation, and Robert was content to leave his book unread as he sat back listening to her and watching her with adoring eyes.

  After an intense coughing spell, Bess felt his forehead to assure herself Robert was not fevered. He captured her hand and smiled at her, seemingly happy to be wrapped in the private cocoon of the coach with her. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, clutching her hand possessively.

  As he slept, Bess allowed her glance to roam over him. He was a beautiful youth, with the fine complexion of an English rose and a shock of thick, fair hair. A year ago, when Bess had arrived at the Zouches, he hadn't been any taller than she; now he was so tall and slim he towered over her.

  Surely the doctor was wrong when he said Rob wouldn't make old bones, Bess thought with a frown. He'll recover, she reassured herself. His mother will nurse him back to health! But then she remembered Jane's letter telling her that Robert's father was too ill to work his land. Rob's mother, poor lady, was going to have her hands full.

  The posting inn at Dunstable did not have rooms available next to each other, so Bess told the Zouche coachman to pay for only two. When he raised his eyebrows, Bess was affronted. “How the devil could you think such a thing?” she demanded. “Master Barlow has been so ill, I dare not leave him alone all night.” To Bess, Rob Barlow was a boy, while she was a woman full-grown.

  They dined on lamb and barley stew with hot crusty bread, followed by a pear tart with clotted cream. She ordered that a fire be lighted in the room she and Rob would share but found she had to pay for it herself. While she doled out her carefully hoarded money, she paid for a tot of brandy at the same time. When Robert had eaten his fill, Bess bade him go up and get into bed. When she entered the chamber ten minutes later, carrying the brandy, she warmed it at the fire, poured a little into her palm, and she rubbed Rob's back and chest. Then she made him drink the rest.

  “Thank you for nursing me so well, Bess. I'd rather be here with you tonight than anywhere else in the world,” he said worshipfully.

  “What rubbish,” she scoffed, but as she sat before the crackling fire, she had to admit it was a cozy place to be on such a bleak, cold night. Soon the fire and the brandy worked their magic and put Rob to sleep. When Bess heard his heavy breathing, she removed her gown and slipped beneath the covers on the trundle bed at the foot of Robert's.

  The next day, as they lumbered through the countryside from Dunstable to Northampton, Bess entertained Robert with stories about Christmas. Then they sang some merry songs to pass the time, and when Robert became short of breath, she carried on alone, filling the bumpy coach with her rich voice.

  The inn that night could accommodate them with adjoining rooms, but when Bess stoked his fire and tucked him into bed, Robert begged, “Please don't leave. Stay with me, Bess.”

  “I'll leave the adjoining door open—I'm a light sleeper; I'll hear you if you need me.”

  “I need you now, Bess,” Robert avowed. “I can't bear it when you're not close by me.”

  She sat down on the bed and took his hand.

  “I'm going to die, Bess,” he said hollowly.

  “Oh, no, Rob, no. Push those fears away. I heard Dr. Belgrave say you would recover.”

  He smiled at her, for once feeling much older than his beautiful companion. “When you're with me I'm not afraid of anything.”

  Bess sat holding his hand until he slept, then she, too, curled up on the bed and fell asleep. She roused in the night, and by the light from the fire, she knew Rob was awake and watching her with worshipful eyes.

  “I love you, Bess,” he whispered. “You love me because you are grateful to me, Rob.” He shook his head. “No, I mean I have fallen in love with you.”

  Bess felt slightly alarmed. “You are only fifteen, too young to be in love.”

  “Age has naught to do with it. I'm so lucky to have found you.”

  Bess patted his hand. “Go back to sleep; tomorrow will be an exhausting day.”

  Bess's prediction proved true. Now that they were so far north, the bone-chilling cold entered the coach, and the pair huddled together to share their body warmth. When they came to the River Trent, the coach and horses had to be transported across by ferry, which took a considerable amount of time.

  Now that they were nearing their own county, the coalfields of Nottingham disappeared and were replaced by the moors and peaks of Derbyshire's limestone uplands, filled with tors, fells, and stone-walled fields. Both the Barlows and the Hardwicks lived in Baslow village, where the Derwent widened from a mountain stream into a broad and beautiful river.

  The Zouche coachman lifted down Robert Barlow's baggage and was prepared to wait for Bess, but the light was fast disappearing from the late-afternoon sky, so she bade him drop off her small trunk at the Leche house and told him she would walk home from the Barlow farm. Bess knew the coachman had been told to proceed to Ashby-de-la-Zouche and await her return to London in a couple of days.

  Robert's mother, amazed at how much he'd grown, seemed pleased to have her eldest son home, if only to unburden her troubles. Bess now wished that she had prepared Rob for his father's ill health.

  “I cannot believe Lady Zouche dismissed you because of a cough, Robert.”

  “It isn't just a cough, Mistress Barlow,” Bess interposed. “Rob has been very ill. The doctor says he has a chronic distemper.”

  “He looks well enough to me. Now, your father is another matter entirely. All hope for recovery is gone. I have to nurse him night and day.”

  Robert looked stricken. “Bess exaggerates my condition, Mother. I'll be able to help you with things now that I'm home.”

  “In more ways than one,” Mistress Barlow said enigmatically, casting a speculative eye over Bess Hardwick.

  “Where is Father?”

  “I've set up his bed in the front parlor; he'll never be able to go upstairs again.”

  Bess suddenly felt in the way. “My family will be expecting me, Mistress Barlow, but I'll call tomorrow to see if there's aught you need.”

  “Yes, we'll likely see you tomorrow—there's business to discuss. Your mother will explain.”

  Bess said good night to Robert, knowing he needed his bed after his exhausting day but was unable to voice the thought to his mother. She walked down the lane, past the Barlow fields and through the tiny village to the house that her stepfather, Ralph Leche, leased from his father, Sir Francis.

  W
hen she opened the garden gate, the front door flew open and her mother and sister Jane hurried outside to enfold her in warm embraces. “Darling, darling, it's so good to see you after fifteen long months! We had your letter yesterday, but Robert's mother got Lady Zouche's letter two days past, so we knew you were coming.”

  Inside, her little half-sisters stared at Bess in awe. “Let's have a look at the fine lady you have become,” Aunt Marcy cried, taking her woolen shawl.

  Bess pirouetted for them all, displaying the elegant gray gown she had been given by Lady Margaret. Her mother handed her a mug of hot mutton broth and made a place for her beside the hearth. In that moment Bess was overjoyed to be at home. “Where are James and Ralph?” Bess immediately saw a look pass between Jane and her mother and saw, too, Aunt Marcy's mouth harden in disapproval.

  “Ralph's gone to fetch James from Edensor.”

  “From the alehouse in Edensor,” Aunt Marcy interjected.

  “Let's not speak of it tonight, Marcella. Let's not spoil Bess's homecoming.”

  “It seems to me that now is the perfect time to speak of it, while the men are out.”

  “Tell me,” Bess insisted, searching their faces.

  Elizabeth Hardwick shooed her three younger daughters upstairs to bed, then said, “James has a tendency to drink too much. It's all because Hardwick won't be his for another three years yet. It's hard working for wages when someone else reaps the profits from James's own five hundred acres.”

  “In two years he'll be a drunken sot, unable to make a go of Hardwick, if he keeps it up,” Marcella said bluntly.

  “Does he not help Ralph farm the Barlow lands?”

  “Yes, but the crops were so poor this year, there have been no profits,” Elizabeth declared.

  “Profits?” Marcella scoffed. “Ralph is so far behind in his rent, the Barlows are threatening him with imprisonment in the Fleet!”

  “Oh, no,” Bess cried. “I had no idea you were in such dire straits.” She brightened. “I have some money I won at cards with Lady Frances Grey. Tomorrow I'll take it over to Mistress Barlow. She is in a terrible mess herself at the moment with both her husband and son ill.”

  “Arthur Barlow is dying,” Marcella said baldly. No one in the room doubted her word; Aunt Marcy treated many sick people with her herbal medicines and knew the unmistakable signs of death.

  “How much money do you have, Bess?” her mother asked doubtfully.

  “Almost two pounds; I spent a shilling at the inn.”

  “That's amazing,” Elizabeth said faintly, exchanging another look with Marcella.

  “So, Jane, you're to be married. I'm so happy for you,” Bess said warmly, giving her sister a hug. “When is the wedding?”

  “The first of December. Oh, Bess, I'm so glad you'll be here for the ceremony,” Jane cried.

  “Oh, I cannot stay until December. I'd love to see you wed, Jane, but Lady Zouche needs me back for the Christmas preparations.”

  Jane looked down at her hands, and again Elizabeth and Marcella exchanged a glance. Before any more could be said, Ralph and James arrived, and for the rest of the evening Bess had the impression that the women of her family hadn't quite said all that they wanted to say before the men came home.

  At bedtime Jane shared her bed with Bess, and the two sisters whispered and laughed together as they had done all the years they were growing up.

  “Your clothes are so elegant, Bess. I've never seen anything so fine as the gown you are wearing.”

  “You must have it—or better yet, choose whichever one you like best.” She threw open the lid of her trunk to reveal the other two dresses she had brought.

  Jane sat on the bed, mesmerized. “You would really give me one?”

  “Of course.”

  When Jane stroked the green velvet, Bess held her breath. That particular gown evoked thrilling memories of the hunt with Cavendish.

  “I won't take the green—it's your color—but I'd love the purple.”

  Bess picked it up and shook out the folds. “I wore this when I went to Hampton Court Palace and met Princess Elizabeth. We were both in purple, and the resemblance between us was uncanny. The only difference was that I had breasts, while she was flat as a board, but she's young yet.”

  Jane's eyes flooded with tears. “Oh, Bess, your life was so exciting, you shouldn't have come back.”

  “What rubbish! I wouldn't give up this chance to be here for anything.”

  * * *

  In the morning, however, when her mother and aunt awaited her on a united front, Jane's words suddenly made sense.

  At the kitchen table Bess poured herself a cup of milk and took a hearty bite of bread and cheese. The food stuck in her throat as she heard her mother's words. “Bess, we have a plan. Our affairs are inextricably tied to the Barlows', and the way out of both families' troubles is for you to marry Robert.”

  Bess laughed, but there was little mirth in it. “What are you talking about?”

  Marcella took over the conversation. “Arthur Barlow is going to die, and since Robert is a minor, the Court of Wards will take the Barlow farm and lands until he is twenty-one. That's six long years away.”

  It will be a miracle if Rob sees twenty-one, Bess thought sadly.

  “If Robert is a married man when he inherits, it puts a different complexion on things. The Court of Wards cannot touch a bride's portion, for one thing. That is a one-third value of the estate. When an underage heir is a married man, all falls into confusion and the Court is often more lenient.”

  “I cannot marry Robert; he's just a boy!” Bess said, outraged.

  “He's fifteen, a year past the age of legal consent for a man,” Marcella pointed out gently.

  “No, no! The Barlows must get a lawyer to draw up a will for Arthur, leaving the farm and land to be administered by trustees.” Bess repeated what Cavendish had told her. “It will be legally protected.”

  “Mistress Barlow cannot afford lawyers, and who in the world could be trusted to leave land to? Bess, darling, it breaks my heart to ask you to give up your ambitions and make this great sacrifice to help your family. I know how grand your dream is, but it is just wishful thinking, my love. I beg you to be practical,” said Marcella.

  “We've talked at length with Mistress Barlow, and she agrees not to press charges for the money Ralph owes, if you agree to the marriage, Bess,” her mother said quietly.

  “But I told you, I'll give her the money.”

  “Bess, the debt is twice as much as you have.”

  When a shilling represented a week's wages, Bess suddenly realized the seriousness of their debt. “What about Ralph's father? Can't Ralph get the money from Sir Francis?” she asked desperately.

  “The Leches are so hard-pressed for money, they are trying to sell Chatsworth. Their land holdings are vast, running all the way from Bakewell to Chesterfield, but most of it is useless wild moorland.”

  “I'll speak with Mistress Barlow today. I'll persuade her not to press charges,” Bess said adamantly. “Marriage is out of the question!”

  “Bess, it is high time you were wed. You've had a whole year in London and still have no prospects.”

  “I do have a prospect, I do!” Bess was vehement. “He's an important man of the Court—one of the king's auditors.”

  She saw their pitying, skeptical looks. “I shall write to him immediately,” she vowed desperately.

  Marcella felt torn in half at Bess's desperation. She wished with all her heart that another way could be found to aid her sister and her husband. Marcella touched Elizabeth's arm, and they withdrew to a corner of the kitchen for a hurried consultation. Then her aunt came to Bess and put a comforting arm about her shoulders. “Write your letter, child. I hope and pray you get the answer you are wishing for. If your knight in shining armor comes to your rescue, or sends a written proposal offering for you, your parents will consider him. But he'd better hurry up,” she admonished gently. “Time is running out for th
e Barlows and for us.”

  SEVEN

  William Cavendish knew he had done an exemplary job in Dover. He had curbed his impatience to return to London, firmly setting duty before pleasure, because of his driving ambition. Upon his return he went immediately to Court to make his report to Treasurer Paulet and learned that his ambition had served him well.

  “I have good news for you, Cavendish. King Henry is most satisfied with the work you have done at the monasteries. He has you in mind for another such post and asked to speak with you the moment you returned.”

  Paulet hinted at preferment of some sort, and William was flattered and eager for an audience with the king. William did not take time to change his clothes but went directly to the Presence Chamber, where after a short wait he was ushered into the king's Privy Chamber.

  He could smell Henry's ulcerated leg the moment he entered the room, in spite of the perfumed royal body, and put aside his concern for his own travel stains.

  “Cavendish!” Henry beamed graciously. “We are not unmindful of the competent job you have done month after month.”

  Cavendish bowed, also with grace. “Your Majesty, I thank you.”

  “We have need of your services, further afield. The post we have in mind will be a shade more difficult perhaps, but we feel you have the qualities necessary to bring all to completion.”

  “Your Majesty, I will do my utmost to see that it is so.” William knew the qualities Henry spoke of were energy and a certain ruthlessness.

  Henry's small eyes seemed to diminish to pinholes in his fleshy face, and William held his breath as he wondered what the devil was coming.