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TWENTY-TWO
When Cavendish returned to London, trouble awaited him. Lord Treasurer Paulet summoned him and told him that Queen Mary had ordered an audit of the queen's treasury.
“We have spies in our midst who have run to the queen with tales of discrepancies.”
“I have held treasury offices for thirteen years without complaint,” Cavendish said bluntly.
“I explained to Her Grace that your appointment carries a very low salary and that you are entitled to take profits. Nevertheless, she insists that your account books be opened for scrutiny.”
“I can turn over the two books that are made up, but my clerks have a dozen more account books in rough that are not yet engrossed.”
“I advise you to get the accounts in order immediately, William. I know from my own offices that private accounting gets mixed with official business, so get them sorted out as soon as you can.”
The auditors came into Cavendish's treasury offices and began the slow process of digging out receipts and payments. It dragged on for weeks, and then months, going back over all the thirteen years he had held office.
Cavendish scrupulously kept it all from Bess and warned his clerks and his secretary, Bestnay, not to breathe a word of what was going on. But the pressure he was under, month after month, took its toll on William. Sometimes, after a fifteen-hour day, he suffered chest pain, and the only thing that eased it was wine.
When the auditors made their final report, it stated that there was a discrepancy of over five thousand pounds, and the lord treasurer had no choice but to demand an explanation from Cavendish that would satisfy the queen. Sir William defended his accounting by revealing that over the years many clerks had disappeared with money. He also said that he was owed money from the reigns of the two previous monarchs, which he collected when Mary came to the throne. Cavendish even produced personal receipts for the money he had paid to raise men to help Mary gain the throne.
At the beginning of August, William had not yet been charged, but he knew the possibility existed and consulted his London lawyers. Worn out with work and worry, he retired to Derbyshire to prepare a formal defense. Five thousand pounds was a vast sum of money, when an average wage was three pounds per annum.
William knew he must find a way to break the news to Bess. Cavendish hoped to successfully defend himself—if he was actually charged—and salvage his career, but it was only fair to warn Bess of the possibility that they could lose everything for which they had worked so hard.
Before he left London William bought his wife an anniversary present. It was a book with a gold filigree cover studded with ten rubies, which held two small portraits they had had painted the year before. He had promised to be home before the twentieth because Bess had a party planned.
When William arrived home on the eighteenth, Bess thought he looked exhausted. “Darling, are you feeling all right?”
William dismissed her anxieties. “The journey was tiring, all the better inns were filled, and I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”
Bess was in the midst of preparations for the anniversary party. In her usual thorough way she took a personal hand in every phase of the planning, down to the finest details. Since it was mid-August she planned the celebration for outdoors in Chatsworth's incomparable formal gardens, but she wisely had a backup plan to have it in the magnificent twin galleries if it rained.
Bess decided it would be a perfect time to show off the Cavendish children, so when the invitations went out, she told the guests to bring along their own children. Of course, that meant they would have extra servants with them, and Bess made certain there would be food and accommodation for all.
Bess noticed that William drank a bottle of claret at supper, then during the evening he drank another. When she discovered him asleep in a chair, she realized just how tired he must be. Her face softened as she watched him sleep. She saw how much gray was in his once dark-auburn hair and was surprised that she had hardly noticed it until now. With a little shock she realized that he was fifty. The age difference had never mattered to them; William was so rugged and vital. But tonight, watching him sleep touched her heart with tenderness. Perhaps it was time that he slowed down a little.
August 20 dawned beautiful. Carriages began to arrive early in the day, and the Cavendishes were at the front door to greet their guests and give them a tour of the two completed stories of Chatsworth. Bess showed off her proudest possessions, which were her children. She and nine-year-old Francie were in identical summer gowns of white silk muslin. Her daughter carried a posy of pink rosebuds, while Bess wore a full-blown rose tucked into her low décolletage.
Her three little sons, Henry, William, and Charles, wore matching doublets and hose, with feathered caps atop their red curls, and her two baby daughters were in the charge of their nursemaids. Soon the grounds were ringing with the shouts of children as they raced about, chasing butterflies and soaking themselves in the fish ponds. Laughter filled the air as fashionably dressed ladies paraded about the lawns beneath their parasols, and men gathered in groups to discuss rents, horses, politics, war, and the shocking state of the realm.
All Bess's family were there, rubbing shoulders with the noble families of the north. Among the guests were the earls and countesses of Westmorland, Pembroke, and Huntingdon, as well as the Marquess of Northampton, Lady Port, the Nevilles, the Fitzherberts, the Pierreponts, and last, but certainly not least, the aging Earl of Shrewsbury. Bess had invited all the Talbots, not simply because they were the wealthiest and most powerful family in England, but because they were her closest neighbors and a lot of their landholdings ran together.
Bess hadn't seen the old earl since he had stood as godfather to one of her sons. When she saw him on the arm of his heir, George Talbot, she was shocked at how much he had aged. He was also totally deaf, so Bess swallowed her animosity toward his arrogant son and said, “Thank you so much for bringing him, Talbot. Your father was always so generous to me.”
His dark eyes swept over her. “The Talbots are always generous to beautiful women, Lady Cavendish.”
Bess ground her teeth. “Is Lady Talbot with you?” she asked pointedly.
“I'm afraid not. Gertrude has just presented me with another son.”
“Congratulations, Lord Talbot. How many children do you have?” Bess asked politely.
“Six—the same number as you, Lady Cavendish.”
Bess was momentarily startled. Surely he was too young to be the father of six children. Then she remembered that he was exactly the same age as herself, and if she could have six, then so could he.
Bess excused herself. It was time for the buffet to be set up, and as her liveried footmen carried out the huge silver trays laden with food and wine and fancy delicacies, she had never felt prouder in her life. The venison, lamb, veal, and game birds all came from their own land. The trout came from the Derwent, the fruit from their orchards, the cheeses and milk from their own dairy farms. Chatsworth even brewed its own beer. There wasn't a woman present who didn't covet Chatsworth; there wasn't a man who didn't covet its chatelaine.
In the afternoon the nursemaid brought baby Mary to her mother. “I'm so sorry to bother you, ma'am, but she won't stop crying.”
