The Night I Was Kidnapped | Baroness Bolsover
- Baroness Bolsover
- 1 day ago
- 6 min read
Updated: 5 hours ago
Bolsover Parish Church, December 1905
My husband, Arthur, and I were quietly contemplating in the peaceful surroundings of our family chapel when, to put it rather crudely, all hell broke loose! Thunderous sounds came bellowing from the back of the church followed by heavy footsteps charging towards our private quarters. We froze to the spot.
‘They’re in there!’ Came a low voice.
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’ I shouted but no words came out.
The sound of clunking metal and a key slowly turning meant the imposters were closing in.
‘THIS IS A PRIVATE CHAPEL! YOU’VE NO RIGHT TO ENTER!’ Still no words escaped my mouth!
The door creaked open.
‘Lady Bolsover. We’ll take her first!’ Commanded the low voice.
Hands were suddenly about me. I turned to Arthur for help, but he was powerless to stop the giant figures from lifting me up and carrying me away within seconds. I was jostled through the doorway.
‘Go easy with her!’ The low voice barked.
My cries went in vain as my kidnappers whisked me through the graveyard in the dark December evening. A horse whinnied as I was thrust inside a waiting carriage, the curtains pulled across and the door locked firmly from the outside. Surrounded in darkness, completely trapped, I was, for the first time in my life, utterly alone.
A crack of a whip and the carriage jolted forward, juddering on the cobbled street.
My dear Arthur. Will I see him again? Will I see anyone ever again? My panic was interrupted as I felt the carriage turn left. Familiar with the streets of Bolsover, I knew we were on the Welbeck Road, heading out of town. Where are they taking me? Why have I been taken? I could find no reason for this crime.
The carriage veered sharply to the right and then to the left, confirming we were still on Welbeck Road… the road which leads directly to our ancestral home of Welbeck Abbey. The mere thought of Welbeck Abbey filled me with dread and despite my attempts to stop them, the memories came flooding back.
We’d moved to the grand mansion at Welbeck in 1879 when my young son became the 6th Duke of Portland. The Abbey was part of his inheritance and seemed the perfect place for our family to live.
The carriage stopped. Are we turning off this road? The carriage continued. We were still on the road to Welbeck Abbey. My heart sank.
The memories hit me hard as I relived that terrible day, fleeing from the house which had become my life’s work and the family home I’d always dreamed of. Never to return.
I heard the low voice outside. ‘His Grace wants her back there.’
His Grace? I was shocked at the mere mention of my son. My son wants me back at Welbeck Abbey? No. Impossible. I can’t go back! Not after what happened!
As the 6th Duke of Portland, my son was one of the wealthiest young bachelors in the country. I knew the young ladies would come flocking. And flock they did. Dozens were pushed through our doors by their even pushier mothers, in the hope of getting an introduction to the duke and becoming what every girl dreams of… being a duchess.
I tried to protect his Grace, as any mother would, and kept a close eye on who he was introduced to. I didn’t want him to think I was interfering, deciding on who he should marry, I was simply trying to help him meet the right young lady.
You can imagine how shocked I was when my son suddenly announced his engagement to a Miss Winifred Dallas Yorke. I was speechless, angry, disappointed and totally embarrassed all in one. It turned out they’d been courting in secret, behind my back. I felt betrayed and deeply hurt.
The couple married a few months later.
My reign at Welbeck Abbey was over, I was, shall we say, 'surplus to requirement'. My older sons had left the Abbey by this time, so I took my daughter Ottoline back to London. I never saw my son again.
The carriage stopped. If Welbeck Abbey was our destination we would continue straight on. The carriage turned left. We were not heading for Welbeck Abbey! Though slightly relieved, I still struggled with the painful memories.
It certainly wasn’t the way I’d wanted to say goodbye to my son. I loved him dearly. The truth is, I never had the chance to wish him and Winifred a long and happy life together. I saw the way he looked at her, he was marrying for love, just how it should be, just as Arthur and I had. My son never intended to hurt me. He thought I wouldn’t approve of Winifred because she wasn’t a titled lady. He forgot I wasn’t a titled lady for most of my life. I was only given the title Baroness Bolsover because I was his mother.
‘We’re approaching Holbeck.’ Came the low voice.
Holbeck’s a small hamlet just down the road from Welbeck Abbey.
The carriage steadied and the wheels turned smoother. We were heading in a long straight line. I knew exactly where we were. St Winifred’s Chapel. I’d walked this flat treelined pathway with my family many times. It was our local place of worship.
The carriage stopped.
‘Let’s get her out.’ The low voice said calmly.
The door lock clicked open and I was handled out of the carriage. Surrounded by darkness, I tried to keep my fear at bay.
The iron gate leading up to the Chapel groaned open and strong arms led me through the graveyard. I was taken up a few steps to a level area which I knew to be in front of the East Window. Still unable to see anything, I became aware of a presence. I held my breath.
A familiar voice came out of the darkness. ‘Welcome home mother.’
The voice I’d longed to hear for so many years. My son was somewhere in front of me, welcoming me home. If only I could see him.
He spoke softly, ‘Forgive me mother. Please.’
Forgive you? But it is I who should be asking your forgiveness! I was confused.
‘Winifred was the love of my life’, he continued, ‘And still is I’m glad to say’.
‘Lady Bolsover…’ I recognised the gentle tone of Winifred, speaking, as always, with upmost reverence, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Where you belong.’ My son’s voice was filled with love.
I was overwhelmed with emotion, savouring the moment that had sadly eluded me when I was alive.
I felt their hands tenderly touch the wooden casket in which I had silently laid for over a decade. Our re-union was interrupted by the sound of a carriage arriving and I panicked a little.
My son put my mind at ease. ‘Father is here too. We’ve brought you both back home.’
I paused, allowing the turn of events to sink in. Arthur and I had been buried in the Cavendish family’s private crypt at Bolsover Parish Church. Arthur in 1877 and I in 1893. Despite our love of Bolsover, Welbeck Abbey had been our ancestral home for centuries and it was perfectly natural for our son, the 6th Duke of Portland, to want us nearer the family home.
St Winifred’s Chapel would be the place in which he and Winifred would someday lay.
I breathed a sigh of relief as Arthur’s casket was gently lowered by my side. Where it should be and where it will be for ever.
And this, my dear friends, is the happy ending I, Baroness Bolsover, have been waiting for. With my son’s forgiveness and my dear husband lying next to me I can finally… REST IN PEACE.
The above is a fictional account based on an article, 'Coffins Removed from Bolsover Church, Re-interment at Welbeck', published in the Derbyshire Times,17th February 1906
Some members of the Cavendish family remain entombed in the Crypt at Bolsover Parish Church whilst others, including Baroness Bolsover and her husband, now have monuments in the grounds of St Winifred's Chapel, Holbeck.
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