So it was a delightful daydream to picture herself in the company of her son, with her husband beside her. She had endowed Norfolk with all the qualities she looked for in a husband. It was true that she had seen him rarely, but she knew him to be young and personable; they had corresponded frequently since those days when Lady Scrope had smuggled letters in and out of Bolton Castle. She believed that he was serious, devoted, affectionate and wise—everything that she longed for in a husband. She would not believe that she had created a myth out of her own desire and desperate need.
Those were happy days which brought a letter from Norfolk or one containing news of her son; and doubly precious were those letters since there was such a risk in sending and receiving them.
One day there came a letter from an old French servant of hers who had found service in young James’s household.
She wrote: “When Lady Mar inquires of him whom he loves best, his mother or her, he replies boldly, although he knows the answer will displease: ‘My Mother.’”
Mary sat reading those words again and again, and when Seton came to her she found her seated in her chair holding the letter against her breast while the tears fell unheeded.
BESS CAME INTO the Queen’s apartment, her face alight with satisfaction.
“Good news, Your Majesty. Huntingdon has received his marching orders.”
Mary showed her relief. She understood, of course. The rebellion in Scotland was quashed; the Queen of England believed she need not fear the Catholics of the North. It was possible to relax the rigorous rules which it had been necessary to impose during such disturbances.
“I guessed that you would be pleased,” went on Bess. “So now Shrewsbury and I are in sole charge. I can tell, Your Majesty, you cannot be more pleased than I. The idea of having that man . . . in my house . . . giving his orders, enraged me.”
“It was the price you paid for disobeying the Queen’s orders.”
Bess smiled triumphantly. “I do believe that Shrewsbury would not be here today if I had not insisted on his taking the baths.” She studied Mary. “Your Majesty would benefit from a trip to Buxton. I must speak to the Queen. Not immediately though. We are still not quite back in favor.”
“You believe that the baths would help to rid me of these pains in my limbs?”
Bess who had never felt a pain herself nodded vigorously. Let the Queen believe she was receiving the right treatment, and her pains would disappear. The only illnesses Bess believed in were those which were manifest by some outward sign. For instance, when the Earl had been unable to speak or move she accepted the fact that he was very ill. Mary’s ailments, she believed, grew out of boredom produced by captivity.
“I will suggest it later. In the meantime I have written to Her Majesty to tell her that you are melancholy in this place and that it does not suit your health. I have asked for a move.”
“And you think she will agree?”
“I have every hope that she will. I long to see Chatsworth and show Your Majesty the house which I built with Cavendish.”
Chatsworth! mused Mary. It would be good to escape from Tutbury. The summer was coming and there would not be the bitter cold to be borne; but the odors were more objectionable in the warm weather. And a move was always a matter of interest.
Then she was alarmed, wondering whether it would be as easy to keep up her correspondence with the Duke of Norfolk at Chatsworth as it was at Tutbury.
XI
Chatsworth
BESS WAS IN HIGH SPIRITS because her household was leaving Tutbury for Chatsworth. Not only was that mansion one of the most beautiful in England, but she herself had created it. Of course her second husband, William Cavendish, had been of some assistance, but Bess thought of Chatsworth as hers. Had she been a woman for regrets she would have regretted the death of William Cavendish because he had been the most satisfactory of her husbands. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that he had provided her with her six children, whose affairs were of the utmost importance to her, and made her life so interesting. No, it was more than that. William had been a good husband in every way—far more so than George Talbot who, Bess must confess, was the least commendable of the four.
Of late he had changed toward her; he seemed somewhat absentminded; he accepted her reproaches almost with indifference, as though he were brushing away a fly which only mildly irritated him.
He was often in the company of the Queen of Scots. Could it really be that she reciprocated his admiration? Bess would not say that her George was the most likely man to attract a Queen who, all her life until she had been taken into captivity, had been a magnet for the flattery and attention of the opposite sex. But Mary was now a prisoner; her retinue was restricted; it was true she had her faithful friends, and Bess believed that many of the male members of the suite entertained romantic feelings for Mary. But the Earl was the most powerful man in her circle; and there was attraction in power. Mary was a woman who needed men about her. Could it really be possible?
Bess laughed aloud at the thought. She had often teased her husband about Mary, but she had not really taken the matter seriously. And if it were true, how would he feel? Jealous? Certainly. Bess desired to possess every member of her family completely. She wanted absolute obedience from them, and all the admiration and affection of which they were capable.
No. This was no love affair. It was one of those airy romantic relationships because the Queen, who was very beautiful, was also a helpless woman.
It did not go beyond that and Bess would make the Earl understand that it should not do so. She herself would spend more time with Mary when they were at Chatsworth; she was going to be the Queen’s best friend . . . not George.
And she would not hesitate to ridicule George’s devotion. She would let him—and Mary—see that although the Earl was ostensibly in charge, in truth that was a role which fate had assigned to Bess of Hardwick, wherever she found herself.
IT WAS A BRIGHT MAY DAY when the Queen and her household, accompanied by the Earl and Countess and theirs, set out from Tutbury, their destination being Chatsworth.
Mary could not help being charmed when she saw the lovely manor of Chatsworth. She had ridden through country which was both wild and grand, and when she saw the house she understood Bess’s pride in it. It was situated on the east bank of the Derwent almost at the base of a thickly wooded hill. As she approached the quandrangular and turreted building Mary was asking herself for how long it would be her new prison.
Riding up to the mansion they were joined by a party of horsemen, and the Countess told Mary that this was made up of the nobles of the neighborhood who, hearing of the Queen’s expected arrival, had come to pay their respects to her.
Mary was delighted by this attention and asked that the visitors be presented to her; and in the hall of Chatsworth she learned that these were led by two sons of the Earl of Derby, Thomas and Edward Stanley, and a certain Sir Thomas Gerard, a Mr. Rolleston and Mr. Hall, landowners of the district.
Because the weather was benign, because she had left the hateful Tutbury behind her, Mary was in high spirits; and it was obvious to all how much she had charmed the young men.
When they had left, Mary was conducted to her apartments, and she was grateful to Bess who had arranged that she should have a suite of rooms in accordance with her rank.
Bess, determined to win Mary’s confidence, accepted the Queen’s thanks with a show of pleasure.
“I would that I could offer Your Majesty a horse to ride,” she said, “but you know that to do so would be to ignore Queen Elizabeth’s express command. However, there is a little garden, not far from the house, which I can offer you and in which I think you will be able to spend some happy hours while you must remain at Chatsworth.”