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He took her long, slim fingers to his lips, then, before he released them, rubbed the ink stain on her index finger with his thumb. She wore a fragrance of verbena, and he thought he had never smelled anything so intoxicating.
“Forgive me for not rising, Lord Talbot.”
For the first time Shrewsbury realized Bess's husband was in the room. He felt himself staring in shock at the shriveled man beneath the lap robe and gave himself a mental shake. “Sir William, I came as soon as I had your note.” He could not bring himself to ask after Syntlo's health. He could see with his own eyes the man was dying.
“Bess is upset with me because I asked for your help.”
“I could never be upset with you, Will; it just seems such an imposition to expect Lord Talbot to solve our family problems.”
“It is no imposition at all, Lady St. Loe. I've already written to the dean of Cambridge, recommending William Cavendish be admitted to Clare Hall next Michaelmas when the term starts.”
“There, Bess, you see? I told you he was the best fellow in the world.”
“How will I ever thank you, Lord Talbot?” Bess asked stiffly.
Damn it, Bess, don't look at me that way! I am no whore-master ordering you to pay with your body.He cursed himself. He knew he couldn't even look at her without revealing how much he wanted her.
Bess lowered her lashes. “Would you care for some brandy, my lord, or some hot cider perhaps?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“Oh, please, stay a little while and tell Will how things are at Court.” Her dark eyes implored him, and he suddenly realized Syntlo would have few visitors. His face softened. “All right, I suppose hot cider will keep out the cold on my ride back to Sheffield.”
With a pang he saw the grateful look she threw him before she left the room. He cleared his throat and sat down beside Syntlo. “I was at Court only a month before I was called home. My wife's condition has steadily deteriorated.” Shrewsbury was an intensely private man who could never reveal the shouting matches that went on between Gertrude and the children. She blamed them for her affliction, and a day did not go by that did not end in her loud recriminations. He knew she was her own worst enemy, and her carping had brought on several small seizures. The young Talbots now avoided their mother whenever they could, and though he would like to do the same, he spent time with Gertrude to take the brunt of her behavior upon himself. He put it down to a mental affliction and tried to treat her with kindness.
Syntlo murmured his sympathy and pursued the subject closest to his heart. “What is Her Majesty up to these days?”
Shrewsbury tried for a light note. “She's not married yet, if that's what you're asking.” When Syntlo didn't laugh, he continued, “The council has proposed Arch-duke Charles of Austria. An Anglo-Spanish alliance would be a balance against the French.”
Syntlo closed his eyes as a spasm of pain cut into him. When it eased he smiled. “Elizabeth plays the marriage card with such adroit skill.”
“It all boils down to religion, playing the Catholics against the Protestants. It's an act she and Cecil perform with ease.”
Bess returned with a footman who carried a heavy silver tray holding steaming goblets of cider. She carried a cup to Will that contained a mixture of chamomile, balm, and opium. He was no longer able to eat, but the posset eased the agony in his belly.
She handed Shrewsbury a goblet of cider and took her own to the fireplace. He watched her push the poker into the glowing coals and wait for it to get red-hot. He took his goblet over to her and held it out. When she plunged in the hot poker, the cider hissed and the aroma of spiced apples rose up about them.
She looked up into his eyes, and in the firelight he saw the mauve shadows of fatigue beneath hers and thought them beautiful. He murmured low, “The winter will pass … spring will come.” She nodded her understanding, and he knew a lump had come into her throat to prevent her from speaking.
He sipped his cider, wanting to take her in his arms and ease her anguish. He knew he must put space between them for decency's sake. He gulped down the contents of the goblet and set it on the mantelpiece. He glanced over at Syntlo and saw he was beginning to doze. He put his finger to his lips and quietly made his way to the library door.
Bess followed him, and together they descended Chatsworth's elegant staircase. She waited in silence as the butler handed him his cape and gloves then tactfully moved away.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Cambridge is—” His words halted as she shook her head.
“Thank you for keeping your promise to me.”
Sir William St. Loe died in early January, long before the first spring flower could struggle through the cold earth to lift its face to the pale sun. Queen Elizabeth ordered a day of mourning for her faithful captain of the guard and chief butler of England but did not honor him with a state funeral.
Bess accompanied her husband's body to London. She knew the long trip would be too arduous in the winter weather for her mother and Aunt Marcy, so she asked her sister Jane to go with her. Bess's three sons, all at Eton College, joined their mother for the funeral. Sir William St. Loe was buried in the church of Great St. Helen in Bishopsgate, beside his father, Sir John St. Loe.
After the interment Bess took her sons to visit their father's grave at St. Botolph's in Aldgate, which was only a stone's throw away from Bishopsgate. Inside her chest, Bess's heart felt heavy as lead. She realized she had never stopped mourning Cavendish, and here she was burying another husband. It all felt so unreal. How on earth had she outlived three husbands? What had she done to deserve life? What had they done to deserve death? Strangely, she remained dry-eyed, but once again she recognized the numb feeling that engulfed her, turning her emotions to stone.
By the time she got home to Chatsworth, Bess was exhausted. She retreated to her own private suite of rooms, which she loved so much, yet found she could neither sleep nor eat. The frightening part was that she could not even feel.
She reread Syntlo's will. Bess knew he had left her all his lands and manors in Somerset and Gloucestershire, but the great ruined monastery and lands at Glastonbury were a complete surprise. They had been married for four and a half years, and because of his dedicated duty to the queen, they had spent much of that time apart. Bess looked down at the will again. Syntlo had been devoted to her. Though she had had a genuine affection for him, he had loved her far more deeply than she had loved him. Why didn't she feel guilt? Sorrow? Anger? Dear God in heaven, why didn't she feel something?
