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“That would take a great deal of money and troops.”
“We have pledges of both.” His eyes lifted and he glanced about the lovely room. “You lease this house from Sir John Thynne?”
“He is a dear friend of mine.”
“He is a dear friend of Elizabeth also. He is a great landowner who has pledged his fortune. William Parr, another mutual friend, has secured a pledge of ten thousand troops from the captains who garrison Berwick.”
Bess experienced a surge of euphoria. Was it really going to happen at long last?
This time Bess asked her friend Sir John Thynne to accompany her to Hatfield. Within days of their visit, Elizabeth received Count Feria, the Spanish ambassador, and this confirmed to her that her sister's reign was ending and they were desperately scrambling to secure Elizabeth's goodwill.
By August the road to Hatfield was thronged with crowds of well-wishers on their way to curry favor with the future Queen of England. By the look of things, there would be no need of civil war to put Elizabeth on the throne; the people were not even waiting until Mary was dead to switch their allegiance.
Though life at Hatfield changed drastically, Bess's life remained the same. Living quietly at Brentford, she endured a long, tense autumn, trying to live within her means and juggling her accounts. Bess knew she faced an uncertain future with insolvency staring her in the face. In the deep recesses of her mind, a tiny glimmer of hope flickered. If Queen Mary died and Elizabeth came to the throne, could the new monarch be persuaded to reduce the overwhelming Cavendish debt? But Mary did not die; she clung to life tenaciously, refusing to pass the Crown to a sister she hated.
At the end of September, Bess traveled up to Derbyshire before the harsh winter weather gripped the north. She had a large enterprise to oversee, disputes with tenant farmers to settle, leases of small manor houses to negotiate, land to drain and enclose, and a dozen other matters to discuss with her bailiffs. She tackled everything with a furious energy and strength of purpose, determined to be back home with the children before the anniversary of their father's death.
On October 25 Bess and her children held a commemorative service to honor the memory of their beloved father, and the following day Bess went by barge to London and took flowers to St. Botolph's. As she laid them on the grave, she said, “I cannot believe it has been only a year. Oh, my love, it has been the longest year of my life. Dear God, I don't know how I'm going to face another one.”
As she knelt quietly, she felt a small measure of peace descend upon her, and her uncertainties melted away. Somehow she had survived and would find the strength to continue. Bess knew she had just as much courage, energy, and determination as she'd always had. The thing she missed was the joy in life. As she stood up a gust of wind whipped her skirts into the air, exposing her legs in their black lace stockings. Bess laughed quietly. “You are a damned rogue.”
During the first week of November, London was abuzz with the news that Mary had finally named Elizabeth her successor, and the queen's servants went to Hatfield to inform Elizabeth.
Mary Tudor finally died on the seventeenth day of November. When Bess heard the news she burst into tears. They were neither tears of sorrow nor joy; they were tears of pure, unadulterated relief. “Elizabeth doesn't know yet,” Bess said to Jane. “It will take hours for a courier to ride to Hatfield. I must pack and leave immediately; the road will be clogged with courtiers.”
Bess opened her journal to record the momentous news, and as she wrote the date at the top of the page, a great shudder racked her body. “Dear God, it was exactly a year ago on this very date that I sailed upriver to Whitehall and cursed her.” Bess clearly remembered the words she had hurled in passionate fury: I will see you in your grave, you bitch!
