Page 67 of A Woman of Passion

As it turned out, a fortnight later it was Bess who was counting. Her monthly courses were late, and because she had been regular as clockwork since she'd turned twelve, she suspected that she had conceived.

She pushed the frightening thought away, immersed herself in the enormous task of sorting out what things were to go to Bradgate, and wished desperately that William would show up at Suffolk House.

When July turned into August, Bess began to panic. She casually asked Henry to pass a message to William that she would like to see him.

“Haven't seen him since the funeral. Strange.” He looked at her with concern. “I'll ferret him out.”

As soon as Bess had all of the pictures and furniture for Bradgate crated and labeled, she set to work packing for Lady Frances and Lady Catherine. That night she sat and wrote out long lists of inventory to occupy her hands and her mind.

The following day Henry sought her out. “I spoke to Paulet yesterday; it seems William is away on the king's business—Oxford and Abingdon Abbey.”

Bess was somewhat relieved that he had not gone farther afield. Still, Oxford was almost sixty miles from London.

“God, men are all alike—off tomcatting, no doubt, sowing his wild oats as a bachelor,” Frances teased.

Bess blushed furiously. Cavendish had certainly been sowing his oats, damn the rogue to hellfire. But she wasn't worried about other women, thank God. She could hold her own against any woman breathing. What did worry her was his possible aversion to marriage. Her overwrought mind went over everything he'd done, every word he'd uttered at Northaw.

He had told her he adored her and that they would be together always, and she believed him. He had loved her passionately, day and night, and taught her passion too, but he had not asked her to marry him. Bess had taken marriage for granted when she agreed to go to Northaw. She should have pinned him down to the specifics about a wedding—where and, more importantly, when?

Bess had no one to blame but herself. She had run to his arms, to his bed, blindly, eagerly, and, yes, shamelessly! She assured herself over and over that all would be well and that William would come on the morrow. But William did not come. The weather turned extremely wet. It poured down every day, and Bess told herself this was delaying his return.

Frances fretted over the weather. “The summer will be gone before we even get to Bradgate. We are usually up there by now.”

“The baggage carts would have bogged down in the rutted roads if we'd left earlier,” Bess pointed out. She was not anxious to leave London before William's return.

“You are right. Bess, I have a dilemma. I don't know whether to leave Jane at Chelsea with the queen or take her with us to Bradgate. I worry about plague in the hot weather.”

“Chelsea should be safe; even though it's close to London, it's surrounded by countryside.”

“We'll go to Chelsea tomorrow and let Jane decide for herself,” Frances declared.

Abiding by her daughter's wishes, Frances brought Lady Jane and her ladies back to Suffolk House. They would all set out on the journey to Bradgate, Leceistershire, on the morrow. Tonight the Greys would bid good-bye to their closest friends at their last dinner party of the season.

John Dudley and his countess were there, as were William Herbert and his countess, who was sister to the queen. As they were going in to dinner, William Herbert smiled at Bess. “Won't Cavendish be joining us tonight, my dear?”

“I—I believe he's away on the king's business, my lord,” Bess replied vaguely.

Lady Herbert cut in, “Nay, he returned from Oxford long since; he dined with us at my brother Parr's two nights back.”

Bess felt stabbed to the heart. She could not believe her beloved had returned to London without coming to see her or sending a note. The blood drained from her face as she realized his actions must be deliberate; William was avoiding her. As if she were in a trance, Bess sought out Frances. “I haven't finished my packing; will you excuse me tonight?”

Once she gained her own rooms, Bess flung herself onto the bed and began to cry. She missed William so much, her heart ached. Without William she felt utterly alone. Abandoned. She told herself that was ridiculous; how could he abandon her when he loved her? Bess sat up and swiped impatiently at her tears as a tiny spark of anger ignited within her. She knew where he lived; she would send a message to summon him immediately!

Nay! The very last thing she would ever do was send him another letter of supplication. Her pride was too great to ever humiliate herself in that way again. She'd die first! Bess picked up a flacon of perfume from beside the bed and hurled it across the chamber.

She began to pace the room like a tigress, seeking a way to vent her rage. Not only was she angry at Cavendish, she was furious at herself. She had gone to him of her own free will, knowing the risk involved. Now that he'd had his way with her, he had tossed her aside. She would have to face the shame and humiliation of bearing his bastard!

She stopped pacing and put shielding hands to her belly. Thank God she was leaving London tomorrow; she couldn't face a scandal. On the way to Bradgate perhaps she would find the courage to tell Frances, or failing that she could go home to her family. Both options were anathema to her. She clenched impotent fists, and decided to keep the shameful secret to herself. Bess was afraid and shockingly vulnerable and insecure. She did not know what she would do and resolutely pushed the decision away, but she knew that somehow, someway, she would have to find a way to cope.

Three carriages, four wagons, and a dozen packhorses made up the Greys' entourage. Lady Jane and her ladies had their own carriage, and Lady Catherine insisted on taking the dogs in the carriage in which she was traveling.

“Take the parrot with you, Henry,” Frances directed. He eyed the yapping dogs and came to a swift decision. “I'm riding!” He set the cage on the seat beside his wife. “You'll have to look after your own bloody parrot, Frances.”

“Men! Apart from bed sport, what use are they?” As the carriage bowled along the Great North Road, Frances settled in for a long gossip. “Bess, you missed all the juicy gossip last night. In a way I'm glad I'm leaving London. If what I am about to tell you turns out to be true, there will be such an uproar, we could all be dragged into it. Lady Herbert told me—in strictest confidence, of course—that our friend Tom Seymour frequents Chelsea day and night!”

Bess stiffened. Hell's teeth, gossip spread faster than the plague! How foolish Elizabeth was to think she could keep his visits secret.

“I must admit I love a whiff of scandal, but Anne Herbert has a nose for it like a bloodhound.” Frances lowered her voice confidentially, and Bess braced herself to hear the rumor about Elizabeth.

---