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ONE
London, 1543
“Something glorious will happen today. … I feel it in my heart!” The corners of Bess Hardwick's generously shaped mouth lifted in a smile as her gaze traveled the entire length of the gallery of the grand London mansion. She had been with the noble Lady Zouche and her daughters for a year now, and that incredible year had changed her life forever.
When they had been forced out of Hardwick, her mother, Elizabeth, had taken refuge with her sister Marcella, who was also a widow. Bess soon grew very close to her aunt, recognizing that they were kindred spirits with strong, decisive personalities. At Marcella's instigation, the two sisters had put their heads together and concocted a plan. Listening to them had taught Bess that the most important goal in a woman's life was marriage and the greatest lesson that could be learned was how to catch a husband. Since Aunt Marcy was rather horse-faced, with a tongue sharp enough to clip tin, their man-trap had to be baited with Bess's more docile mother, Elizabeth.
In what seemed a remarkably short time, Elizabeth Hardwick captured the younger son of Sir Francis Leche of Chatsworth. Unfortunately, Ralph Leche, Bess's new stepfather, had little money of his own, and when the babies started to arrive, he had difficulty supporting them all. Even the house in Baslow village that Ralph leased from his father, Sir Francis, became overcrowded, especially after Aunt Marcy moved in to help with the children. So once again the sisters put their heads together to concoct a plan to improve their family's lot in life.
It had been nothing short of a miracle when the noble Lady Margaret Zouche decided to pay a visit to her country home at Ashby-de-la-Zouche. Elizabeth and Marcella had known Lady Margaret when they were girls because of some distant relationship, and they decided to visit her immediately to ask if one of the Hardwick daughters could be found a suitable position in her London household. Such service with a noble family was a traditional way for children of poor kinsmen to further their education and gain experience in running a vast household. When Lady Zouche indicated she was amenable to their request, the sisters rushed back to Baslow to make the monumental decision.
Which Hardwick daughter should be pushed from the nest to make her own way in the world? “Though it's an unpaid position, it is a God-sent opportunity to make useful connections for her future. Mark my words,” Marcella prophesied, “Bess will be our salvation!”
“Bess?” Elizabeth said uncertainly, for she had two daughters older than Bess, both of whom were far more suited to following orders.
“Of course Bess,” Marcella said implacably. “She has your beauty and my sharp tongue, and to top it all off, her glorious flaming hair will make London sit up and take notice of her. Her sweet, biddable sisters would be dumb as doorknobs! Bess will seize the opportunity and run with it. Bess isn't sweet, she's tart, and at barely fourteen already has the breasts of a courtesan! I shall miss her with all my heart, but it is a wonderful opportunity for her.”
Bess had never been separated from her family; she'd never even slept alone. She shared a bed and all her secret dreams with her sister Jane. Bess feared she would miss her gentle mother and her aunt Marcella. Her aunt dispensed such sage advice, and she wondered how she would manage without her.
The night before she departed for London, when she would be cut off at a stroke from her loving family, Bess experienced the nightmare that had been plaguing her ever since they had been thrown out of Hardwick Manor. It seemed to recur when she was feeling especially vulnerable.
Bess walked in to a room that was empty, stripped bare. She ran downstairs and found the bailiffs carrying off everything she possessed in the world. Bess begged and pleaded and cried, all to no avail. Outside, her family's meager belongings were being piled on a cart. They had been put out of their house and had nowhere to go. Fear washed over her in great waves. Panic choked her. When she turned around, the cart was gone, her family was gone, and even Hardwick Manor had vanished. Bess had lost everything she'd had in the world. The suffocating terror mounted until it engulfed her.
Bess awakened, screaming … everything was gone … she was overwhelmed with helplessness, hopelessness.
The following morning, the excitement of traveling to London soon dispelled the terror of the nightmare. Once inside the magnificent treasure-filled Zouche mansion, Bess no longer harbored any doubts that she had done the right thing in leaving home. She was completely certain that she was fulfilling her destiny and had an overwhelming desire to become wealthy enough to buy back Hardwick Manor for her family.
Suddenly plunged into a world of riches and privilege, Bess became wildly ambitious. Like a sponge, she soaked up everything about her new way of life and made herself indispensable to Lady Zouche and her daughters. And now, just over a year later, on the threshold of womanhood, Bess had the feeling that something momentous was about to happen in her life.
As she descended the stairs from the third-floor gallery, Bess paused in her headlong rush as she saw young Robert Barlow coming in the other direction, gasping for breath. He was a page in the Zouche household, from the same village in Derbyshire as herself.
“Rob, sit down before you fall down,” Bess said, retracing her steps to the gallery. She shoved the tall, thin youth down on a carved settle and noted his gray pallor. He was as delicate as a girl and had little vitality.
“My chest hurts terribly when I climb stairs,” he gasped. Nonetheless, he managed a smile, apparently grateful for her attention.
“Go up to your bed and lie down. I think you are growing too fast and it robs you of strength.” Bess enjoyed such robust health herself that the boy's languor alarmed her.
“I can't, Bess, I have to take this message to Suffolk House and await a reply.”
Bess plucked the letter from his hand. “I'll take care of it, Rob. Go up now; none will even miss you.” Bess knew she should delegate the delivery of the letter to a footman, but on a sudden impulse she decided not to do so. London! How she adored it, and the Strand—with its magnificent mansions that belonged to the nobility—was her favorite place to walk in the most glorious city on earth.
The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Grey, Marchioness of Dorset, who was Lady Zouche's dearest friend in the world. The first time Bess had met Frances Grey and learned she was the daughter of King Henry Tudor's sister, she had been overwhelmed. But during the past year, Bess had visited the Greys' London residence so frequently that she had come to feel at ease in the great lady's presence.
Bess had thought the Zouche residence, which reflected the feudal lifestyle of the past, impressively grand, until she had experienced Suffolk House, where the Greys held court on a regal scale. Though they were immensely rich and powerful, Bess thought Frances and Henry Grey the kindest, friendliest people she had ever known. And even though their daughters, Lady Jane Grey and Lady Catherine Grey, were in the line of succession to the throne, they were good friends with Lady Zouche's daughters. Thanks to Bess's position as the girls' companion, she was included in that friendship.
Using a back door that led from the kitchens, Bess stepped into the warm summer sunshine and quickly walked down Bedford Street to the Strand. If the stretch of land along the river had been paved with gold, it wouldn't have seemed more fantastic to her for there stood one huge mansion after another, all no doubt crammed with riches, treasures, and servants. At first Bess thought of them as the many mansions of heaven, which Jesus had referred to, according to the scriptures. Nay, more like paradise, she decided. Her footsteps slowed as she strolled past Durham House and York House. Just imagining the vast rooms behind the tall windows, whose walls held priceless paintings, set her blood singing. Someday, Bess vowed, I will have my own town house in London. What about Hardwick? a tiny voice whispered. Bess tossed her red curls, dislodging the embroidered cap perched precariously on her head. “Hardwick shall be my country home,” she answered loftily, ignoring the liveried servants who sent her admiring glances.
Ambitious men got whatever they wanted, so why shouldn't a woman be ambitious? She was only going to live once, so why not make it count? Bess was determined to be a great success and get her fair share of this world's riches. She swore it, vowed it, pledged it like an oath. Bess envisioned her future with clarity. She knew exactly what she wanted and knew there would be a price to pay. But that was only right, a mere bagatelle. She would pay the price gladly, even with abandon. She would walk through fire or barter her soul to have it all!
It had not taken Bess long to make herself indispensable to Lady Zouche. She made sure her employer saw that she was quick-witted and shrewd, and had an ability to manage people that would have been wasted in a menial position in the Zouche household. She had adapted so quickly to the lifestyle of the aristocracy, had such beautiful manners and an abundance of energy, that Lady Zouche had recognized the jewel she had acquired and appointed Bess companion to herself and her daughters.
Happier than she had ever been in her life, Bess knew that now was her opportunity to catch a husband. Though she was not of noble birth and had no dowry, she was young, beautiful, and had the benefit of influential connections in the exalted ranks of the upper aristocracy. Moreover, Tudor court circles attracted the richest, most ambitious men in England.
Bess made her way through the formal gardens behind Suffolk House, inhaling the fragrant scent of lavender and late-summer roses. She scanned the lawns leading down to the river, expecting to find Lady Frances outdoors on such a warm afternoon. Until she reached the steps, Bess did not notice the two men above her on the terrace. As she looked up, the sun dazzled her eyes so that she thought for a moment the resplendent figure before her was King Henry. Bess drew in a swift breath and sank down in a graceful curtsy upon the terrace steps. Her skirts formed a pool of pale green, and the sun burnished the tendrils of red-gold hair escaping from beneath her cap.
From their vantage point above her on the terrace, the two men were privileged to a delicious display of pert breasts. William Cavendish's mouth curved sensually. “Cock's bones, there's a dish I'd like to taste.”
Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset, jabbed his friend in the ribs and strode toward Bess. “Mistress Hardwick, surely there is no need for such formality between us?”
