The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 98

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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.

She was about to summon her, but she changed her mind and made her way instead to the Earl’s chamber.

Bess was not feeling very pleased with her husband at this time; he had been obstinate about some property which she had wished to present to one of her sons. Shrewsbury had stood out against this. He was weary, he said, of so much that was his, passing to the Cavendishes. He reminded her that, though they were her children, they were not his.

This was rebellion, and Bess expected obedience from husbands; she told herself that Shrewsbury was her least satisfactory husband and, although she knew she would eventually have her way, she was far from pleased that it should be necessary to enforce her will.

She remembered now that there had been several occasions when she had come upon Eleanor in the Earl’s rooms. Of course the woman might well be there on some duty, but was it not a little strange that it should always be Eleanor whom she saw there?

She found the Earl in one of his relaxed moods, and she remembered that these were now frequent occurrences. He seemed to be pleased with himself in some way—how could she describe it? Self-satisfied? She remembered that mood from the early days of their marriage.

It is not possible! she told herself. Shrewsbury and a serving girl?

She was furious at the thought. Had it been the Queen, she would have been angry, because Bess would always be angry if deceived, but at worst the woman who had supplanted her would be a Queen.

Could it possibly be that a serving girl had supplanted Bess of Hardwick in her husband’s affections?

BESS WAS NOT ONE to let such a matter pass. She determined to find out if her suspicions regarding the Earl and Eleanor Britton were justified and kept a sharp watch on Eleanor. One day she saw the serving woman making her way to the Earl’s bedchamber, and hastily secreted herself in an ante-room from which she could gather what was taking place.

From the moment Eleanor entered the chamber, she knew that her fears were going to be confirmed. Suppressing her rage she waited; and when she believed they would be so absorbed in each other that they would not hear the quiet lifting of the latch, she opened the door a few inches and peeped around.

Her impulse was to dash upon them and beat them with the nearest object. But she hesitated, reminding herself of the scandal which would inevitably ensue if this were known. And how could she avoid its being spread if she made a fuss about it? She imagined Queen Elizabeth’s laughter and coarse jokes with her courtiers for Elizabeth would be the first to enjoy a joke at the expense of Bess of Hardwick. What an undignified position! She, the Countess of Shrewsbury, deceived by her husband and a serving girl!

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