A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  In March, the wind and rain exacerbated Henrietta’s spiritual and physical heaviness. Occasionally they heard reports of cannon fire in Oxfordshire, and then came the devastating news that Newcastle’s forces had been tricked and skirted by the large Scottish army, leaving them free to reach London largely unhindered. On Edward Hyde’s advice, Charles met with his new Parliament members and asked them to broach negotiations with the London Parliament. Henrietta did not approve of this – it legitimized a rebel Parliament and showed weakness – but her energy diminishing with her growing belly, she held her peace.

  At the first sign of spring, Charles said, she should retire to Bath for her confinement. She had taken to her bed with a headache. The waters would make her stronger, he said, and he could be called away at any time.

  ‘What about the children?’ she asked.

  Sitting beside her on the bed, he kissed her on her forehead and said, ‘James and Charles will go with me. Don’t worry. Haven’t they been well looked after in the field so far? Besides, since one or both will be King one day, they must be skilled in the art of war.’

  She didn’t like to think of them on the battlefield, even behind the lines, but she couldn’t argue with the wisdom of it. ‘I will take the young ones with me,’ she said firmly.

  He shook his head. ‘No, they will be better protected here, away from Parliament’s reach. And you will be freer to do what women must do.’

  No. No. A thousand times no, she wanted to scream. Instead she said coldly, ‘I will not abandon them a second time.’ She did not say, As you abandoned them at St James’s Palace when you fled London, but it was a struggle to hold those words back.

  He paused for a minute as if deep in thought, pleating the fine fabric of her bed gown then, tracing her arm with his ringed forefinger, lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Why not ask Lady Carlisle to come here while you are away? She seems to have done well enough by Elizabeth and Henry. When you return, you will enjoy her company. Only God knows how long I will be away defending against these rebels.’ He stood up then, and began to pace beside her bed, the hand that had held hers smoothing his chin in contemplation. ‘This time we can prepare properly for the children. They will be here with the court, with Lady Fielding and Chancellor Hyde and Lady Carlisle, if you decide to send for her when you return with the babe.’

  ‘But no, I—’

  Before she could finish her protest, he sat down beside her again, cradled her belly with his hands. ‘It is not like the last time, dear heart, when you were away, and I had to leave them at St James’s Palace.’

  ‘I … shall think about it,’ she said, closing her eyes to hold back untimely tears. ‘We will talk about it later.’ Then as he walked to the door, she said, ‘Please close the drapery, mon amour. The light, it is too harsh.’

  Upon his return, Ben did not go that first week to seek out his stepmother at the Gresham Street address as he had promised Mary Powell. Mary Milton now. That was a bitter pill to swallow. He told himself that he did not seek out Caroline because he had too much work. The boys had nearly flogged him when he’d returned, demanding to know why he had abandoned them to the unsatisfactory victuals that milord provided, and there was a small backlog of printing, which Whittier ignored, absenting himself, possibly making up for lost time at the Southwark taverns. Two nights he had come in just before dawn, smelling of incense and whisky. It was not pique because of his own absence from the shop. His employer had seemed congenial enough upon his return, not complaining at all, and expressing genuine sympathy when Ben told him about the death of his father.

  But after that first night, when he had gone out, saying with a grin that now it was the ‘printer’s devil’s’ turn to provide dinner for the newsboys, he had seemed distracted and oddly troubled. Ben thought it necessary to stick close to the shop those first few days. At least that was the lie he told himself and, oddly enough, deep down, he knew it was a lie – a convenient excuse. As much as he longed to see Caroline, and did not doubt that it would be a great relief for her as well, it would be a painful reunion, a reminder of all that had been lost.

  ‘Didn’t you tell me that your stepmother was here in London? Have you seen her yet?’ Lord Whittier asked on the Saturday after Ben’s return. ‘And Patience Trapford, does she know you are back? She came here looking for you, worried that you might be ill when you did not appear for Sabbath services for two weeks running. I think she even went to the big ditch looking for you there. I told her you had gone to take care of family business and wasn’t sure when you would return. Though she tried to hide it, I could tell she found that news distressing.’

  He should have told Patience he was leaving. She was a good friend. Maybe more than a good friend. But that was a dead end. What woman would want to be wife to a one-armed orphan with no prospects?

  Wife? Where had that come from?

  What would Patience say if she knew the companion of his youth was Milton’s wife? Might she share some insight into why he thought her an unfit wife? It was Milton who was unfit. Old enough almost to be her father. But Ben would say nothing to Patience, beyond a casual mention that he had known Mistress Milton growing up. Any suggestion of criticism of the godly man Patience adored would only serve to complicate their relationship.

  He also delayed going in search of Caroline because deep down it was good to be just Ben again, roughhousing with the boys, pulling on the press until his muscle quivered with fatigue, pretending that the war was happening far, far away, even though the newsprint he was pressing talked about a skirmish not ten miles upriver and a bunch of Parliament troops drowned.

  The next Sabbath came and went. This week, he told himself, I will go to Gresham Street to find Caroline. This coming Sabbath I will go to church and tell Patience about my father and casually comment that now they had a mutual connection. But on a Tuesday morning, his excuse for yet more delay walked in the door with the promise of another contract.

  Ben was cleaning the press when Roger Williams came into the shop looking for a publisher for his pamphlet on the ‘Bloody Persecution for Cause of Conscience.’ He looked up briefly as Lord Whittier greeted the visitors. And there was John Milton. Within an arm’s distance. Wearing his pompous demeanor as stiffly as his starched lace collar, brown velvet suit, and carefully curled hair. A sudden vision of the sadness and resignation with which Mary had said, ‘I am married now,’ engulfed him.

  He brought the press down with enough vigor that it groaned in protest and, wiping his stained hand against his apron hard enough to flay the skin right off, regarded the man whose mannered speech and arrogant opinions had merely been amusing when Patience spoke of him. But that was before.

  ‘Ben, have you met Mr Milton? We printed some pamphlets for him.’

  Ben stepped forward reluctantly, nodded at Milton without looking him in the eye, then straightened his spine to tower over the man despite Milton’s high-heeled shoes. ‘Yes. We met here once before.’

  The other man held out his hand. ‘Roger Williams,’ he said. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Ben. I understand that you not only work the presses but help set type.’

  Ben merely nodded and tried to smile. But the man’s easy manner was calming. He was jovial, with a warm smile and sincere eyes.

  ‘Reverend Williams is a preacher from across the ocean. He has returned to London to get a land grant for a plantation in the colonies. Along with a little publishing that might fall outside the confines established by the Stationers’ Guild. Do you think he’s come to the right place, Ben?’ Whittier smiled, the kind of smile Ben had not seen lately.

  ‘I do indeed, milord.’ Still thinking of the last unorthodox pamphlet they had printed, and regretting his part in that.

  ‘I am sure my words will be in capable hands. I was fortunate that my old friend John Milton steered me toward you,’ he said. ‘Here is my manuscript. I’ll check back with you in a week. Will you have something to show me then?’

  ‘Enough tha
t you can approve the type. Shall we say early next week – Monday or Tuesday?’

  ‘Let us say Tuesday. I have a meeting with Henry Vane on Monday about the Plantation.’

  Whittier took the manuscript and the men shook hands, then James followed them into the street where they talked for another few minutes. When he returned he seemed thoughtful, remarking how much he had liked Williams and almost envied him. ‘It must be something to build a country so far removed from government meddling. No king. No governor except one chosen by the people – and no religious squabbling; every man free to worship as he chooses or not to worship at all.’

  ‘Sounds radical. What does Mr Milton say about it?’ Even he heard the sneer in his tone, but Whittier seemed not to notice.

  ‘He agrees with you. Said it was a radical and a foolhardy attempt, but for the sake of their friendship he would do what he could to help him get the grant. Radical it may be, but it seems to be working for him so far. He can’t wait to return.’ He shuffled through the written pages. ‘Parliament censors will not be happy with this. They like to think only the Catholics and the Church of England persecute. We need to get on this right away.’

  ‘Why the hurry?’

  ‘Williams wants to get passage home as soon as his grant is finalized. You know, Ben, we may eventually be frozen out by the guild. A little outside business is good. It will keep the press running and put a little money in our pockets too. There’s a thriving market for underground pamphlets and we are going halves on this one.’

  ‘I am ready, milord. Whenever you are,’ was all Ben said, as if he had no other obligations at all.

  LONGINGS

  God bless you, my sweet child and wife, and grant that ye may ever be a comfort to your dear father and husband.

  In a letter to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, from James I (1623)

  I desire only to live in the world for your sake … I will live and die a lover of you.

  George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, to James I

  ‘Is it my fault, or yours?’ Lucy asked James Whittier as he lay beside her, breathing heavily like a man who had just dropped out of a race he knew he could not finish.

  Her voice was soft with passion – or unshed tears. Since John’s death, the spring that produced those tears had flooded at the smallest cloud.

  He did not answer immediately.

  Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled the coverlet up and her shift down to the ribbon garters securing her silk stockings, lest he find her breasts too flaccid, her belly too flabby – though verily that was not all that was limp between the sheets. She charitably shared the coverlet, covering them both, then lay back, each staring at the bed canopy as if its tapestry held some newly discovered secret. What he was thinking she could not fathom. But as for her, the passion that had prompted her overtures had receded and she had quite exhausted her bag of tricks.

  It had all started so innocently, just the sharing of a simple repast. She had not exactly seduced him. At least not deliberately. It was just that since John’s death all joy, even the expectation of joy, had gone out of her life. When Whittier showed up at Syon House to deliver his belated sympathy, and pump her for information, she had greeted him with delight and flirted shamelessly, even inviting him to her boudoir to share an intimate meal. But truly, male companionship was all she was seeking.

  Botticelli’s Venus, woven into the canopy above them, mocked her. Ah but admit it, Lucy. Truly, you did seduce him. That was not what he came for. You made the overture this time. You are always most needy when you mourn. Remember how quickly Pym replaced Thomas Wentworth in your bed. No. Really it signified nothing, she reasoned. She had only insisted Whittier join her because she hated to eat alone.

  Carter had served them slices of duck dressed in wild berry sauce, along with small root vegetables roasted with savory herbs, all cleverly salvaged from the remains of yesterday’s dinner. The butler, always the soul of discretion, if not approval, had closed the door behind him as he left. Pouring her visitor a glass of wine, she coaxed, ‘My brother Algernon’s best. This horrid war has not taken everything from us. We might as well drink it before his cellar is looted by the Royalists. You heard, I suppose, how close they came. I have a hole in my garden wall from a cannon ball. Though now I think on it, the hole might have been made by Parliament’s side.’

  ‘I heard. I printed an account in my daily broadsheet.’

  As his gaze settled on her, he took the glass, his eyes glinting with pleasure. She had so missed that look of appreciation in a man’s eyes. ‘Now.’ She sat across from him. ‘We are quite alone, my lord. We will not be disturbed. We may talk about anything you desire. But first, you have come a long way during a busy workday. Let us enjoy this feast together, shall we? Though I will admit it is disheartening how one’s standards have changed. At least Cook has tried to dress it up for us.’

  He laughed. A wonderful, deep-throated laugh. ‘Feast enough for any man, no matter how discerning his taste,’ he’d said, his gaze not wavering. He was such a practiced flirt. Beneath his bold gaze, her skin tingled with warmth. How she had missed this: the flattery, the flirting glances, the hidden meanings in each jest, the coy answers.

  Reaching across the table, she took away the chunk of fowl he was raising on the tip of his knife and put it on her plate, sliced it into smaller pieces, saying, ‘What is the hurry, my lord?’

  Curiosity raised an eyebrow. A half-smile played with his mouth as he watched in silence. She leaned across the table and, lifting a morsel to his lips said, ‘Good things should be savored slowly.’

  He parted his lips and waited, enjoying the game. As she placed the sliver inside his mouth, some of the red sauce dripped onto his chin. She made a little clucking noise of mock dismay then, wiping it away with the tip of her finger, sucked at the stain with a pouting mouth.

  He chewed slowly, not taking his eyes off her. He swallowed the meat and, sighing with satisfaction, said with a smile, ‘I see what you mean, my lady.’

  Leaning across the table, he kissed her, a prolonged kiss, slow and filled with passion. His lips were firm, and the taste of berry lingered on his tongue. She had reciprocated in kind, more in kind than a lady should have done, but it had been so long, and suddenly they were making the beast with two backs and what started out slowly elevated to a frenzy before coming to an abrupt halt.

  He sat up, his back to her and pulled on his breeches.

  ‘I assure you, loveliest of ladies, ’twas not your fault. You are a beautiful woman. Any man would …’

  Was he just being charitable to a woman almost old enough to be his mother? ‘Would what, my lord?’

  ‘Find your beauty an … inspiration. It was churlish of me to take advantage of your grief. Realizing that is what unmanned me in so … untimely a manner.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. ‘Your bond with Mr Pym was no secret. But lest you need more assurance …’ With his back to her and his head bowed, she struggled to hear as his voice trailed off. ‘It was not the first time lately,’ he said, running his fingers through his dark hair in a gesture of frustration.

  She sat up and turned her back to his as she reattached her bodice. ‘If you will be so kind as to hand me the skirt that you so skillfully removed.’ She could feel her cheeks burning, scarcely knowing if it was for his embarrassment or hers, yet wanting him desperately to stay just for the comfort of his company. ‘We did not finish our food, or our wine … or our conversation. Pity to let good food and good company go to waste.’ She turned to face him then, both now fully, if not carefully, clothed. ‘Will you tarry awhile?’

  ‘I would like that very much,’ he said, then added sheepishly, ‘but if it is all the same: this time I’ll feed myself, lest I be tempted to repeat my sorry performance.’

  It was a rare man who could laugh at himself, especially in matters of intimacy, she thought, as he seated himself at the table and began attacking the food as if he
had earned it. She watched him eat in silence. The meat had congealed in the berry sauce, though he seemed not to mind. She sipped her wine. But not seductively. She knew when she was beaten. A quiver of insecurity lingered. Maybe he was one of those men who was all talk and no action. But if that were true, his reputation was certainly a lie. Maybe it was something – or someone – else.

  ‘Have you ever been in love, Lord Whittier?’ she asked, not challenging him with her eyes, but looking down at the glass she toyed with.

  When she glanced up, he had put down his fork and was looking at her. He picked up his wine glass. Took a sip, hesitating, as though he was trying to frame his words.

  ‘Once,’ he sighed. ‘When I was very young. I fell in love with a beautiful girl.’

  ‘And did she love you back? Silly question. Of course she did. How could she not?’

  ‘I thought she loved me.’

  ‘And she proved false?’

  ‘She married my brother. He was the heir.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. His was a common story. Grace and good looks usually weighed lightly against title and wealth. Handing him a cloth, she said, ‘You have a little bit of berry sauce on your mouth.’

  Taking the bit of linen, but careful not to touch her hand, he acknowledged both the gesture and its underlying truce with a shrug and a half-smile.

  ‘What did your brother have to offer? Besides the title, which I suppose is no small thing. Are they happy?’

  ‘They are both dead. She died giving birth to a stillborn child.’ He grimaced. An old scar, she thought, that he did not wish to probe. Still she waited, wanting to hear the rest of the story. He took a swallow of wine then continued in the same flat tone. ‘Five years later, my brother squandered the family fortune on ill-timed ventures and then he died of drink.’

  ‘Leaving you to inherit the title. And not much else.’