Photo by Richard Keene Ltd. Derby, after the painting at Hardwick Hall.

Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury.

To you belongs, for many a reason, this, my firstessay in history, which I have carried to its endwith many misgivings, but with much delight in thematter itself.

The orthodox may be affronted at two brief incursionsinto fiction which they will find in it. Let them skipthese judiciously, magisterially. For my own part, Ineeded consolation at times for certain hard and bitterfacts of the history. Therefore, since the way wassometimes long, and the wind, in my imagination, verycold—as it whistled in and out of the ruins of thosemanors and castles where the Scots Queen and her marriedgaolers dwelt, or as it drove the snow across thesplendid grey façade of Hardwick (to say nothing ofthe draughts of the sombre, public research libraries)—Ifirst drew my Countess down from her picture-frameto marshal her household, and then lured her child andher child’s lover after her to gladden your road andmine.

And so I give you—besides all the thoughts whichhave gone to every scrap of writing I have ever done—theselast, which curl and stiffen and again uncoilthemselves about this hungry woman of Elizabethanvidays. Into her life and much-abused toil, we, whohave neither gold nor heirs for whom to store it, canlook together in love and pity.

Thus even while we rejoice over our diminutivehome, may we never forget to give thanks to the spiritof those who built the great houses which nourish thelittle ones, and who, in place of the “scarlet blossom ofpain” that grows at great door and little, shall give tous in the end the perfect English rose.