Page 34 of A Woman of Passion

TEN

As Bess stepped from the Zouche carriage and looked up at the tall town house, the two and a half years she had been gone from London melted away like magic. Margaret Zouche looked exactly the same, although her daughters had certainly grown.

“Oh, Bess, my dear, you look all grown up. I'm so very sorry you were widowed at such a young age. I feel I had a hand in the unhappiness that befell you.”

“Lady Zouche, you were not responsible in any way,” Bess said kindly, but she had counted on Margaret Zouche's conscience to facilitate her return to London and reinstate her in the household. In the time that Bess had been gone, Lady Zouche had acquired a half dozen new servants and did not really have room for more, but Bess was willing to resume her position of unpaid companion, so how could Margaret refuse?

“So much happened during your long absence from London. The king took another wife—Catherine Parr, a widow in her thirties. Can you credit it? King Henry has had six wives!”

The king had married before Bess left London, but she did not correct Lady Zouche.

“Yes, it was the talk of Derbyshire, and I was able to fill my family in on all the fascinating gossip about her, thanks to Lady Frances Grey.”

“Because the plague was rampant in London, the Greys spent the entire summer at their country house, Bradgate. It's not too great a distance from Ashby-de-la-Zouche, and I finally got to see it.”

“What is Bradgate like?” Bess asked raptly.

“It isn't a country house at all, it's a red-brick palace! It even has a moat and ramparts, though they are only for ornament, not fortification. It is set in acres of orchards and pleasure gardens.” Margaret rattled on, “Speaking of Frances, she tells me that our dear friend, William Cavendish, returned from Ireland last month and the king has knighted him for his services to the Crown during the last two years. Sir William is so much in demand these days, I haven't had a chance to see him yet to congratulate him. The London hostesses are already inundating him with invitations this season.”

Bess felt her heart constrict with pain the moment she heard his name, then her mouth went dry. So, the damned rogue got his title after all! She was surprised that the mere mention of his name could cause her emotional turmoil when she thought herself quite indifferent to him after all this time. She examined her feelings more closely, asking herself exactly what she felt for Cavendish. The answer came back quickly. She felt anger and betrayal; he had hurt her deeply and she longed to hurt him back and take her revenge.

“Cavendish is a married man,” Bess said primly, then wondered why she had stated the obvious.

“Perhaps not for long. 'Tis rumored his wife is ailing. Mark my words, if he ever does become a widower again, he will be the catch of the season.”

Bess lifted her chin defiantly. “I don't even recall what Cavendish looks like.”

“Ah, my dear, you will soon have an opportunity to refresh your memory. Lady Frances has invited us to Suffolk House next week. 'Tis the first big ball of the season. She threw one last October, and it was such a success, Frances has decided to make it an annual event. You must come, of course; Frances will be delighted to see you again. It's a stylish affair; all the ladies are to be in white and all the men in black. I want your unique ideas about what to wear, Bess; there isn't much time.”

Bess was suddenly in her glory. “We'll come up with something spectacular, Lady Zouche.” Bess, of course, was referring to her own attire for the ball. I'll show him! she vowed silently.

With the help of Margaret Zouche's two full-time seamstresses, Bess turned her employer into a swan and her two young daughters into cygnets. Since the young girls were never permitted to wear anything but white dresses, it wasn't difficult to achieve a swanlike effect. The trick was in the details. Close-fitting, white feathered headdresses with matching fans were all that was required to turn the Zouches into graceful, gliding, fairy-tale creatures. Or so Bess convinced them as they preened before the mirrors in the sewing room.

Bess had no difficulty finding a discarded white dress in the Zouche wardrobe, and she worked over it an entire night, enlarging the tight white satin bodice so that it molded her luscious, upthrust breasts. She used the only thing she had—black satin mourning ribbon—but the striped effect she created was startlingly sophisticated. She found an exquisite lace ruff that had yellowed with age and a faded ostrich-feather fan and cleverly dyed them black. At the first ball of the season, not only would she stand out from all the women in white, but they would not be able to fault her choice of black accessories, because they symbolized her widowhood.

“Well, stab me with a bodkin!” Lady Frances said, clasping Bess to her ample bosom, then holding her at arm's length so she could appraise the ravishing redhead in the vivid black and white. “You always were a clever girl. God, how I've missed you. Most of the females I know are dull as bloody ditchwater! You are the only one who dared to disobey my edict of white!”

Bess laughed with delight. “I don't care to follow trends, I prefer to set them. Why did you choose white, Lady Frances?”

“So I'd have something to laugh at, of course. None of the jades at court have worn white since they were brides, and most didn't have the right to wear it even then! And having the men wear black is simple revenge for their flamboyancy. They strut about in scarlet and gold putting us women in the shade.”

“None could ever put you in the shade, Lady Frances.”

“Nor you, Bess. I'm glad you're back in London, where you belong. Widows are bringing a high price on the auction block these days,” Frances said, referring to Queen Catherine Parr, “but don't wed the first man who asks you; have a little fun first.”

Bess brought up her fan to conceal her smile as Lady Zouche approached. She would have little enough fun in Margaret's household. Frances rolled her eyes at Bess and whispered, “I love her dearly, but she's so damned straitlaced. Margaret, darling, your geese have finally turned into swans!”

Although the Greys' ball boasted a dozen countesses and a duchess or two, it was Bess who drew every eye. When Frances was questioned about her guest with the glorious red hair, she glossed over the fact that she was an unpaid servant and gave out the information that she was a widow of independent means.

Bess's first dancing partner was Lord Suffolk, Frances Grey's young brother. She had always thought of him as a boy, but the way he squeezed her hand and stared hungrily at her breasts made her realize he was growing up quickly. When the dance ended, Bess steered the youth in the direction of his sister's husband.

Henry Grey lifted Bess from her deep curtsy and drew her hand to his lips. “My dear, it is so good to see you back in London. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

“Thank you, Lord Dorset.”

“It's Henry,” he said quietly.

“Henry,” she said softly, wondering if Frances knew how lucky she was in her choice of a husband.

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