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Eventually, Cavendish began to hear whispers of the queen's displeasure. Moreover, her Catholic policies were unpopular, which she blamed on her advisers, and it was hinted that for political reasons she was going to rid herself of these officials. Sir William began to suspect that sooner or later she would remove him from the privy council.
William was determined to keep all this rumor and speculation from Bess. She worried about things unnecessarily, and he wanted only her happiness. He would not disturb her peace of mind for anything. She was a perfect wife, a loving, indulgent mother, a superb hostess, and a capable chatelaine and business partner, who, with the aid of her bailiffs, ran their northern landholdings smoothly and efficiently.
Cavendish was determined not to add to her burden; she had quite enough on her plate. Philosophically, William reasoned that if he was replaced on the privy council, it would not be the end of the world and he would be able to spend more time in Derbyshire with his family. When he received a letter from Chatsworth, telling him that Bess was ill, William's priorities fell into line in a hell of a hurry. He set his London worries aside and rushed home to Bess.
He rode through the tall iron gates of Chatsworth, oblivious to the magnificent formal gardens that usually gave him such pleasure. Jane and Marcella greeted him with anxious faces, but when William saw that Bess's mother was there, a knot of fear twisted his gut. He took the stairs three at a time, then paused to catch his breath and compose himself so Bess would not see his panic.
He opened the door softly and stepped quietly up to the big carved bed. She lay so pale and wan, painful anxiety rose up like a hand squeezing his heart and clutching his throat. He swallowed hard. “Bess, my own sweet love, it's me.”
“Rogue,” she whispered.
She always used his nickname as an endearment, and it almost undid him. He reached out to gently touch her brow and felt that she was feverish. The change in her appearance greatly alarmed him. Bess was always so vivid and vital, always laughing. When she played with the children she was a hoyden—so wildly disheveled, no one would have ever guessed she was old enough to be their mother. Then in the evenings she would transform herself into an elegant, fashionable hostess, so slyly witty she could hold court amid a roomful of high-born nobility. When they retired she would let down her glorious hair and become a passionate seductress, making him reel from the hot desire she kindled in him.
Bess clutched at him and William sat down on the side of the bed, realizing that she desperately wanted to tell him something.
“The children,” she whispered.
“You want to see the children, darling?” He knew they would swarm all over the bed and he would have to keep them in check.
Bess shook her head as if she were impatient that he didn't understand. “Promise me that you will make good marriages for them, promise me!”
He wondered if she was delirious and stroked her brow, but she was not burning hot and her words seemed to be coherent. “I want titles for every one of them.”
“Yes, love,” he soothed, trying to calm her agitation.
She dug her nails into his hands. “Cavendish, promise me! Swear it!”
He suddenly realized that Bess thought she was going to die. Splendor of God, did she feel that ill? He was astounded that her thoughts were not for herself, but for their children. The lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He gathered her into his arms. “Bess, I swear it, but I also swear you are not going to die. I won't allow it! You are only in your twenties—you have a long life ahead of you. I need you, Bess, don't even think about leaving me.” He strode to the door. “Marcella!” She was a spry old girl and arrived quickly. “Have you had the doctor?”
Marcella made a rude noise. “Aye, but after his blood-letting, I swore not to have him back.”
“Have you given her something for her fever?” he asked desperately.
“Of course I have—I am an herbalist!”
“She is so agitated,” he said distractedly.
“Bess will be all right now that you are here, Cavendish. You are her bulwark, her strength.”
“I'll sit up with her tonight.”
“Good. You are all that she needs.”
William tenderly bathed his wife, then gently fed her more of the potion that Marcella had brewed. Then he carried a big chair to the side of the bed and prepared to guard her all night from the angel of death. He was not a religious man, but when she smiled at him and closed her eyes, he covered her hand, which was so precious to him, and began to pray. Bess was his shining light; she had brought a radiance he had never experienced into his life, where before there had often been darkness. Bess was his passion, his joy, his life.
At dawn Bess fell into a more peaceful sleep, and William levered his big frame from the chair and left the chamber for a moment so he could stretch his long limbs. The household was already awake, and William found Bess's mother, aunt, and sister gathered in the morning room.
“Bess is sleeping; she seems a little better.”
Her mother went up immediately, but Marcella fixed him with a daunting stare. A more fainthearted man would have been intimidated.
“Cavendish”—there would be no deferential Sir William from this old war-horse—“she's had too many children in too few years. Her last babies were only eleven months apart. Curb yourself, man!”
Her words not only quelled him, they covered him with guilt.
When Marcella swept from the room, Jane was blushing to the roots of her hair. “Sir William, I beg you pay no heed to her. Bess was visiting a tenant farmer's wife who was sick with a pestilent fever. When the woman's children caught it, Bess helped nurse them.”
“Thank you, Jane. Nevertheless, there is truth in Marcella's blunt words,” William acknowledged guiltily.
