“It is you!” he says, his face reflecting her joy. “No! No! Truly it is you. You shall not accuse the countess, indeed you shall not. Gauche means left in English, Your Grace! Not right. You have been commanding them the wrong way round.”
She screams with laughter and falls into my arms and kisses me the French way, on both cheeks. “Ah, pardon, Lady Bess! Your husband is right! I have been teaching you all wrong. I am a fool not to speak your difficult language. You have a most poor master of dance. But tomorrow I shall write to my family in Paris and they shall send me a dancing teacher and some violinists, and he will teach us all and we shall dance beautifully!”
1569, SPRING, TUTBURY CASTLE: GEORGE
I draw Bess to one side before dinner and tell her. “Our guest is to leave us. She is to be returned to Scotland. I heard from Cecil himself today.”
“Never!” she exclaims.
I cannot restrain a knowledgeable nod. “As I said,” I remind her. “The queen said she should be restored to her throne and the queen honors her own word. We will take her back to Scotland. She will return in triumph. And we will be there with her.”
Bess’s eyes gleam. “This will be the making of us. Good God, she might give us a massive estate on the borders. She will have acres to give away; she will have miles.”
“The recognition we deserve,” I correct her. “And perhaps, a token of her thanks. But the messenger brought me something else.” I show her the sealed package and Norfolk’s letter. “Should I give it to her, d’you think?”
“What does it say?”
“How should I know? It is sealed. He wrote to me that it is a proposal of marriage. I can hardly pry into a courtship.”
“With her you can. You have not lifted the seal and resealed it?”
Sometimes my Bess shocks me. “Wife!” I have to remember that she was not born into this position. She has not always been, as she is now, a countess and a Talbot.
She drops her gaze, penitent at once. “But my lord, should we not know what the Duke of Norfolk is writing? If you give her the letter you are condoning whatever he says.”
“All the other lords condone it. They support it.”
“The other lords were not personally commanded by the queen to guard her,” she remarks. “The other lords are not here, handing over secret letters.”
I feel deeply uneasy. Queen Mary is a guest under my roof, I can hardly spy on her.
“Does he say that Cecil knows?” she asks.
“He wouldn’t confide in Cecil,” I say irritably. “Everyone knows that Cecil hopes to rule everything. His ambition is unbearable. A Howard would hardly apply to William Cecil for permission to marry.”
“Yes, but I do wonder what Cecil thinks,” she muses.
I am so annoyed by this that I can hardly reply. “My lady, it does not matter a fig to me what Cecil thinks. It does not matter to Howard what Cecil thinks. It should not matter to you what Cecil thinks. He is little more than the queen’s steward, as he always has been. He should not presume to advise those of us who are lords of the realm, and have been for generations.”
“But, husband, the queen listens to Cecil more than any other. We should take his advice.”
“A Talbot would never apply to such as William Cecil for advice,” I say grandly.
“Of course, of course,” she soothes me, finally understanding that I am obdurate. “So give me the package for now, and I will return it to you after dinner and you can give it to her then.”
I nod. “I cannot spy on her, Bess,” I say. “I am her host; I stand in a position of honor and trust with her. I cannot be her jailer. I am a Talbot. I cannot do anything that is at all dishonorable.”
“Of course not,” she says. “Leave it all to me.”
We go in to dinner happily enough and for once the queen eats well; her sickness has passed and she has had a merry day, riding with me and sewing with Bess, and then dancing. After dinner Bess goes out for a little while on household business while the queen and I play cards. When Bess comes back into the presence chamber she calls me to one side and says that she thinks I am right and that the queen should have her letter.