She wondered how she could tell Seton; yet she knew that she must be the one to break the news.
One of her women came in and asked her what ailed her, if there was aught she needed; she could say nothing, only shake her head.
The woman went to Seton and said: “I fear the Queen has had bad news. She is sitting at her table, but she seemed bewildered.”
“I will go to her,” said Seton, knowing that in the hour of disaster they belonged together. What will she do if I am no longer here? Seton asked herself. How can I ever be happy—even with Andrew—away from her?
Seton went to the Queen and laid an arm about her shoulders. Mary turned and looked up at her. “Oh, so it is you, Seton?”
“You have had bad news?”
Mary nodded.
“Do you wish to tell me, or shall I help you to your bed and bring cool scented kerchiefs to lay on your head?”
“I fear I must tell you, Seton, because it concerns you even as it does me.”
Seton said in a whisper which was only just audible, “It is Andrew?”
“My dearest Seton, what can I say to comfort you?”
“Tell me, please.”
“He is dead. He died of a fever when he was on his way home to us.”
Mary put the letter into Seton’s hand. Seton read it and let it flutter to the table. But Andrew had been so young, so full of health and vigor!
Mary stood up suddenly and the two of them clung together wordlessly.
Mary thought: She did not wish to choose between us, and now fate has made the choice.
THE YEARS WERE PASSING, each day so like another that Mary lost count of time. News came to her now and then. Her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had died—one more friend lost to her. George Douglas married at last—not his French heiress but a certain Lady Barery, a rich widow of Fifeshire, and he appeared to have settled down with her on her estates close to Lochleven. Willie was with him, she believed. They were always the Queen’s men; and if opportunity occurred for them to aid her, she knew they would seize it. Lady Lennox died suddenly and Queen Elizabeth took a marked interest in little Arabella Stuart. Mary had been allowed to go to Chatsworth and been brought back again to Sheffield; because of the continued strife in Scotland Mary trembled for the welfare of her son. There was a rumor that Elizabeth was trying to have him sent to London that she might marry him to his cousin, Arabella Stuart. But James remained in Scotland and, although he wrote to his mother, his letters were rarely allowed to reach her.
Little Bessie Pierpont was growing up to be rather a precocious girl; her interest in the French secretary had increased. They chattered together in French and neither seemed completely happy unless in the company of the other.
Occasionally Mary was allowed to visit the baths at Buxton, but Elizabeth invariably cut short her visits, with the result that she was hurried back to Chatsworth or Sheffield.
After so many years in the household of the Shrewsburys she almost felt like a member of the family, and some of the Countess’s daughters were her friends—in particular Elizabeth, who never forgot the part Mary played in her marriage, and as it was a most happy marriage she was full of gratitude to the Queen for helping to make it possible.
There were times when Mary forgot she was a captive and there would be music in her apartments. It was pleasant to see little Bessie Pierpont—not so little now—in a flounced dress, made by the Queen, dancing daintily with her partner. Very often Jacques Nau would join the company, and he and Bessie danced very prettily together. Young Arabella was sometimes present. She was not yet four years old but a lively little creature.
The Countess doted on the child and scarcely took her eyes from her; but she liked to see her in the company of the Queen of Scots.
With the coming of the year 1582 Mary realized with horror that it was thirteen years since she had first set foot in England. Thirteen years a prisoner! What hope was there now of her escape?
It was during this year that a malady struck Arabella’s mother, Lady Charles Lennox. Bess immediately took charge and brought all her skill and energy to the nursing of her daughter. Even this however could not save her, and soon after the beginning of her illness she died, leaving little four-year-old Arabella motherless.
A fierce emotion took possession of Bess of Hardwick at that time.
She vowed that little Arabella should not miss a mother’s care. Her grandmother would give her everything she needed. And more also.
DURING THE WINTER of that year and the next, Mary was stricken with sickness and many believed that her life was at an end. Her patient nurses, headed by Seton, however, were determined to save her life, and they did.
“But why?” Mary asked wearily. “See how the time is passing. I no longer hope for release.”
She asked for her mirror, and when she looked into it she saw that illness had ravaged her lovely face still further. Her thick hair was almost white; and it seemed to her that this change had come upon her suddenly. But of course it was not so. Although each day seemed long and empty, looking back it appeared that the last years had passed quickly because of their monotony. She had not realized how they had slipped away.
They had indeed taken her youth with them.
She lay in bed watching Seton whose rheumatism had become worse. She noticed afresh the gray in Seton’s hair and the newly formed lines on her face, and she thought: Seton is a reflection of myself. We have both grown old in captivity. I have lived more than forty years, and I was only twenty-five when I came to England!
She called to Seton then. “Bring me my wig,” she said, “the chestnut one.”
Seton did so, and put it on Mary’s head. Mary held up the mirror. “Now I feel young again. That is how my hair once looked. Seton, you too must hide these gray hairs. We are helpless prisoners and I doubt that we shall ever be aught else. But let us pretend that we are young and gay. Oh, Seton, you have suffered with me. We must pretend to be gay. It is the only way we can go on living.”
And they wept a little; Seton for Andrew Beaton, and Mary for Bothwell who had since died, driven mad, she had heard, by such long imprisonment. She thought of him—he who had gone his own way reveling in freedom, forced to live his life in a dreary prison. She had heard that he had dashed his head against a stone wall in an excess of melancholy. How tragic to contemplate what the years had done to them all! Poor mad Bothwell, who had once been the gay and ruthless brigand.
“He is dead—but he had confessed to the murder of Darnley and exonerated me before he died,” she whispered; and she would always remember it.
But he was gone forever and so were the days of her youth and gaiety.
But as she held up her mirror and saw the chestnut hair reflected there she had an illusion of youth; and she knew that she would never cease to hope, and that when some knight like George Douglas, Norfolk or Northumberland came to her she would go on believing he could rescue her from her prison.
THE YEARS DID NOT WORRY BESS. She was as sprightly as she had been when Mary had first come under her roof. Her voice was as loud and firm as ever, and she kept the household in order as she had always done.
When her granddaughter Arabella was at the castle she never let the child out of her sight. She herself supervised her lessons; she would not allow anyone else to do that. She it was who made the little girl conscious of her rank, and everyone in the castle said that little Arabella was the apple of the Countess’s eye.
Bess was brooding about the future of this favorite granddaughter one day when, walking past the Earl’s apartments, she saw Eleanor Britton emerging, and there was something about the demeanor of the woman that aroused her interest.