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Downstairs, the Earl of Shrewsbury offered his condolences to Bess's mother and Aunt Marcy. Jane rushed upstairs to inform Bess of his arrival.
“Give Lord Talbot my apologies, Jane. I don't wish to see anyone.”
“But, Bess, it's the Earl of Shrewsbury. I cannot refuse him.”
“I can, and have many times,” Bess said without emotion. “Please leave me alone, Jane.”
Reluctantly, Jane approached the small group in the beautifully appointed receiving room. “My sister sends her profuse apologies, Lord Talbot, but she cannot see anyone this evening.”
Talbot stared at her as if she were mad. “Did you tell her it was me?”
Jane flushed with embarrassment. “It's not personal, my lord. Bess has isolated herself.”
“I assure you it is personal. Would you be good enough to inform her that if she doesn't come down, I shall go up?”
Jane stood rooted to the floor, while Bess's mother uttered a shocked, “Lord Talbot!”
Marcella stepped forward with great authority. She knew there had been something secret and intimate between Bess and “Shrew,” as she called him, for some time. “You'd best go up, my lord earl. It will take someone with a will stronger than hers to snap her out of her trance.”
Shrewsbury needed no urging. He took the stairs two at a time and located Bess's rooms with unerring instinct. He knocked but did not wait for a reply. Without hesitation he opened her chamber door and walked in.
“Who gave you permission to come up here?” Her voice was remote.
“I don't ask permission for my actions.”
She was standing by a tall window, holding something in her hands. The black gown she wore gave her the look of a wraith. As he drew close he was shocked at how pale and bloodless her face looked. He reached out firmly and took the object from her hands. She offered no resistance. He found himself looking down at a gold-filigreed book studded with precious rubies. When he opened the cover, two portraits were inside, one of Bess, the other of William Cavendish.
“Splendor of God, you are still mourning Cavendish!” He ignored the sharp jealousy that rose up in him, set the book down on an occasional table, and lifted her into his arms. He carried her to a cushioned settle by the fire-place and sat down with her in his lap. With infinite tenderness he cradled her against his heart. “Bess, let go, let go.”
He stroked her hair, marveling that the firelight turned it to flame beneath his hands, and felt her body shudder. His arms tightened about her, holding her secure, holding her safe, and waited with infinite patience for the ice that froze her heart and her emotions to start to thaw. “You've been strong long enough. Let go … let me be your strength.”
Her body began to shiver, in spite of the warmth of the fire, and he stroked her back, over and over. Gradually, he felt some of the rigidity leave her. In a little while he heard a low sob, then a long shuddering breath, and finally the floodgates opened, letting out all the dammed-up emotion that had been impossible for her to release until this moment.
She clung to him for an hour, crying and sobbing, then abruptly she stopped and was racked with a fit of hysterical laughter. Next she shot up from his knee and swept about the room in a terrible temper tantrum that encompassed the gamut of cursing, screaming, and breaking things. The storm was electrifying to the man who witnessed it. It was a magnificent, passionate rampage that made Gertrude's petulant tirades pale into insignificance.
Then Bess began to talk, confessing all her shortcomings, all the things that covered her with guilt, ending with an about-face, self-righteously defending herself. Finally, she crawled back into his lap and began to cry again.
Shrewsbury shook his head in tolerant wonder. Bess was the most passionate creature he had ever known, and he loved her beyond reason. He allowed her to cry for two more minutes, then said firmly, “That's enough, my beauty.” He sat her up and began to unfasten the back of her gown.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Undressing you.”
Her tear-drenched eyes widened in shock. “You cannot do that!”
“Don't be utterly ridiculous, of course I can. I'm going to undress you and put you to bed.” He went about the business matter-of-factly, as if he had undressed her every night of her life. Beneath her mourning gown and black petticoats she was wearing the plainest shift he'd ever seen. “Christ, is this some sort of a penance? You'll be wearing sackcloth and ashes next.”
She didn't laugh but looked at him woefully. He slipped off her stockings and garters with an iron control that amazed him and went to her wardrobe for a bed-gown. He selected a soft lamb's wool that would keep her warm in her big, empty bed. He held it out to the fire for a minute before he thrust her arms into it and pulled it snugly about her middle. Then he swung her up into his arms and carried her through to her adjoining bedchamber. He pulled back the covers, tucked her into bed, then bent to light a fire in the marble fireplace. He set the chimney draught carefully, then went to all four windows and closed the heavy drapes. Outside, it had begun to snow, and he knew it would be a cold ride home. He lit a candle and carried it to the bed. Her eyes were closed in sleep; her lashes, still wet with tears, made dark shadows on her cheeks.
As he descended the great carved staircase, he saw three apprehensive faces gazing up at him. He knew it must be close to midnight, knew they had heard the screams and the crashes, and knew they expected some sort of explanation. Instead, he quietened their fears. “She's sleeping like a baby. Tomorrow I think she'll be back to her old self.”
He climbed into the saddle and urged his horse from Chatsworth's warm stables. Suddenly, he didn't mind the snow at all. His blood ran hotly in his veins. The mere thought of Bess would keep the bitter cold at bay.
