George was right. If this could be successfully achieved it would be a step toward her return to power. And if only she could but see her son again, she often told herself, she would ask for nothing more. He was growing up now, that little James, having come to the end of his eighth year; and it would be so easy for a clever man to make him believe the lies against her.
Yet would Morton ever let him go? Dear George, he had always conceived such wild plans; but she remembered that it was due to Willie rather than George that she had escaped from Lochleven.
It saddened her that his marriage had come to nothing, because she feared it might be because he had set his Queen on such a high pedestal that he compared all others, to their detriment, with her—quite wrongly, Mary believed.
She wrote to George. His plan interested her very much, she said; and if it could be put into execution she was sure it would have the effect they all desired; but he had suffered enough, and she begged him not to put himself in further peril for her sake.
SHEFFIELD CASTLE had never been one of Bess’s favorite residences, and in October of the year 1574 she took an opportunity of visiting Rufford, another of the family’s stately houses. Bess took her unmarried daughter, Elizabeth Cavendish, with her and a few days after her arrival was very glad that she had, for noble travelers called at Rufford, and these were none other than Margaret, Countess of Lennox, who to Bess’s joy was accompanied by her son Charles, the younger brother of Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, who had met his death so mysteriously in Kirk o’ Field.
Bess warmly welcomed the visitors and made sure that the young people were often in each other’s company.
Elizabeth Cavendish was a beautiful young woman, and Bess had long been looking for a suitable match; so when good fortune threw Charles Stuart in her way, the ambitious Bess felt this to be an opportunity which should not be missed.
As soon as she had seen that her guests were comfortably settled, she sent for Elizabeth who, knowing her mother, guessed what was in her mind.
“The young Earl of Lennox is a charming fellow,” Bess began, and Elizabeth could not help laughing aloud.
Elizabeth had spirit and Bess liked to see spirit in her children, but she was always a little afraid that it might make them stand out against her. Not that Bess had any fears that she would not in time have her own way, but she did not wish to waste time and energy in unnecessary conflict.
Elizabeth said: “He is also Charles Stuart and grandson of Margaret, who was the eldest sister of Henry VIII.”
Bess nodded approvingly. “I see that your thoughts move in the right direction.”
“You cannot seriously mean that there might be a match between him and me!”
“And why not? You must admit he is handsome and entirely agreeable.”
“Mother! Your ambitions cloud your sense.”
“I’ll thank you not to question my sense, girl. I have no wish to box your ears, but I shall certainly do so if you forget your duty to your mother.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Nay, mother,” he said, “do not be angry. But do you not agree that Her Majesty the Queen will wish to choose the bride of one who is so near the throne?”
“Doubtless she will. Therefore it is for others to make the choice before Her Majesty realizes it is made.”
There was perhaps little harm in allowing her mother to dream, thought Elizabeth. She knew that the Queen would never consent to a match between them. Bess, for all her arrogance, was after all only a Hardwick, and her daughter would never be considered worthy to mate with a royal Stuart.
“The children of this young Earl will be in direct succession to the throne,” said Bess, licking her lips as though some tasty dish had been set before her.
Elizabeth agreed with her mother; she had learned that it was always necessary to do that; and when Bess arranged that she should show Charles the gardens or ride beside him, she obeyed meekly.
They seemed momentous days for those two young people. Both felt that Queen Elizabeth would never allow them to marry, so their relationship began in perfect freedom, in spite of Bess’s rather obvious tricks to throw them together. But their natural feelings were too strong and although the Lennoxes stayed only five days at Rufford, before the end of that time Charles and Elizabeth were deeply in love. The knowledge both enchanted and terrified them.
Bess, seeing her daughter melancholy, came to her apartment demanding the reason, and in a very short time discovering it, was exultant.
Nothing could have suited her better.
“There is no need for melancholy!” she cried. “You are my beloved daughter, and if you decide you are in love and cannot be happy without that young man, then depend upon it, your mother will arrange that that young man will be yours.”
“Mother, you would not dare. Remember who he is.”
But it was precisely because of who he was that Bess would dare. It was dangerous, she knew; but if the prize was great enough Bess was always ready to risk the danger. Her Elizabeth was going to be Countess of Lennox; and that meant that Bess’s grandchild could—circumstances permitting—one day wear the crown of England. So, come what may, Elizabeth was going to marry the Countess of Lennox’s Charles.
She sought an early interview with the Countess of Lennox, and as soon as they were alone together she took a kerchief and held it to her eyes.
Margaret Lennox, startled to see Bess in a condition so unusual with her, asked the reason. “It is because of my dearest daughter’s unhappiness. The foolish girl! Oh, how could she be so foolish!”
“My dear Bess, tell me what has happened. You cannot mean that your Elizabeth has distressed you. I think her one of the most delightful girls I have ever met.”
“She is. Indeed she is. But, Margaret, what do you think the foolish creature has done? I can scarcely bear to tell you. She has fallen in love with . . . your son Charles and he with her.”
“My Charles! So that is why he seems changed. I have never seen him quite as happy as he has been.”
“Poor boy. Alas for him. These foolish young people! But what can you expect? They are both so young, so beautiful. Much as I have enjoyed your stay, my dear Margaret, I almost wish you had not come here.”
Margaret loved her son dearly; more so, she believed, since the tragic death of his elder brother, and it was her dearest wish to see him happy.
Bess, the kerchief still held to her eyes, was watching her companion intently, and felt like crying her triumph aloud, for she realized that it would be the easiest thing imaginable to win Margaret Lennox to her side.
“What shall we do? What shall we do?” she moaned.
“I think we should first discover how deeply our young people feel,” suggested Margaret.
“I pray that their young hearts are not too strongly committed, although I fear the worst.”
Margaret was silent for a few seconds, then she said: “But, Bess, suppose they should have fallen so deeply in love that it will break their hearts to part . . . what then?”
“I dare not think.”
“I do not want my son Charles to suffer as his brother Henry did.”
“His was a sad marriage . . . a marriage of ambition,” Bess agreed. “Had it been a true love match doubtless Henry would be alive today.”
“I cannot bear to think of it even now . . . . It haunts me still.”
“You are his mother . . . and like all mothers who love their children, would rather see him happily married to some good young girl than dead . . . though he was once the King of Scotland through his wife.”
Margaret had covered her face with her hands. This was going well, thought Bess. All she needed was Margaret’s consent and she would go ahead with the marriage. Queen Elizabeth’s wrath could be faced when the marriage was a fait accompli. It would be like taking Shrewsbury to the Buxton baths all over again. Although this of course would be considered a far more serious matter. Never mind. The thing was to get the pair married.