The bells signaling evensong pealed out from block to block. They walked the rest of the way to her house without talking, stopping in front of what looked like a respectable townhouse, but there was no welcoming light in any window.
‘This is it. Thank you, Lord Whittier, for seeing me safely home – once again.’
Before he could think of something charming to say, she turned and fled up the steps and quickly closed the door behind her without so much as a backward glance. But at least he knew her name, knew where she lived, and had a connection with her through Ben. He would see her again, and soon.
The unfortunate events of the day were receding. He had found her. Now all he had to do was win her.
Henrietta supposed Charles – or most likely Edward Hyde – chose Abingdon Abbey as the place to say goodbye. It was a truly godforsaken place because it had been abandoned and looted by the Church of England more than a century gone. At sunset it was particularly foreboding. The locals never came except to steal stones for their hovels and fences. Its once proud structure was subsumed by negligence and decay. Now, in mid-April, new green tendrils grabbed at dead vines and crept over the skeletal remains. Ancient apple trees, bent and broken, bordered an overgrown vineyard that no longer bore fruit, mocking the holy rites that had long ago been celebrated in this once holy place. More than just the cold wind chilled her as they pulled into the ragged yard. She found its desolation soul-searing.
Charles had not ridden in the carriage with her, preferring, he said, to ‘ride beside, the better to defend you.’ Only when they pulled into the shadow of the abbey had he climbed in beside her. Henry Jermyn, now Baron Jermyn, Captain of the Queen’s Guard and her always-friend, stuck his head in the door and offered them refreshment presented in Jermyn style on a golden plate. She took the plate to please him, but only nibbled at the pretty confection. It was her favorite. How thoughtful he was. He well deserved the title that she had insisted on, even though Charles had been reluctant. She did not drink at all from the silver cup. Who knew how long it would be before she could relieve herself. There was certainly no place here.
‘Merci beaucoup, Baron Jermyn,’ she said, handing back the cup and plate. ‘Your service, like your presence, is always a comfort. I am so glad you are accompanying me.’
Charles frowned then, closing the door against the newly made baron, said, ‘Don’t look so sad, my dearest. This will all be over soon. You will once again sit beside me at Whitehall. Our court will be restored with the music and light and laughter you and I created together. Our kingdom will be whole again.’
‘I will pray for that, Charles, with every waking breath. Even as I sleep, my soul will petition the saints to protect you and our children.’
He took her hand, saying nothing.
‘Remember your youngest children, Charles. Do not get so caught up in the fighting that you neglect them. Do not leave their well-being to servants and convenient courtiers as you did when you fled London. That was a mistake.’
‘I know. I had no choice. It broke my heart. But it turned out well enough. Chancellor Hyde thinks we should return Elizabeth and Henry to Syon House for the time being. What think you?’
She hated to admit it. But for once she agreed with Hyde. She did not like him. Did not think him capable. But he was not the kind of man to put children in danger, and he had proven himself loyal. ‘Elizabeth speaks very fondly of Lady Carlisle,’ she said. ‘Even asked if she could come to court at Oxford.’
‘Our spies say that Essex has received orders to begin the siege against Oxford. That will occupy him for a while. When he prevails, he must find the royal nest empty.’
Henrietta replied, ‘I remind you that Lucy is Essex’s cousin.’
‘Yes, but he has been her cousin all along and still she kept them safe. Just until you can get safely to France. Hyde will arrange for them to come to you. I promise.’
‘I have no choice but to trust her. She might even be persuaded to escort them to France herself. I would like that. In Lucy I could have a friend at Le Louvre. We could be strangers together. In Paris there would be no false religion to come between us.’
‘It will be over soon. I promise,’ he said again. ‘The Irish troops from the North will turn the tide for us.’
She bit back the reminder that this would all be over if he had taken her advice when she first wanted to raise a Catholic army to put down the rebels. Now it might be too little too late. But she did not want a bitter parting between them.
Then, with no more fanfare than a merchant bidding good day to his wife, he kissed her goodbye and exited the coach. She watched him out of sight. Framed by the coach window, silhouetted against the brilliant afterglow of the dying sun, without his broad Cavalier’s hat or royal robes, and mounted on an unremarkable steed, she was surprised how ordinary he looked.
When the horizon was empty, she leaned out the window and motioned to the captain of her guard. ‘Henry, please ride in the carriage with me for a while. I need your company.’
The kitchens at the guildhall had become emptier every day since the weather had warmed enough to make war a constant pastime. Caroline was glad she no longer had to work until she was too exhausted to stand, but she remembered the endless stream of young men who came through her kitchen and wondered how many she would never see again. Because of attrition, the soldiers of London’s Trained Bands were away for longer and longer spells. The Scots who were not joining the march on Oxford were encamped around London’s environs. On most days Caroline only prepared a porridge breakfast and sent them off on patrol with a plowman’s lunch.
But today was Sunday, and she did not have to work at all. She rolled over in the small bed, wedged under the eaves, for another hour of blissful sleep. Then she had another thought, the kind of urgent, wide-awake insight that springs full-blown into the waking mind and will not be denied. She needed to get her name on the church roll if she was ever questioned about her attendance. If Parliament was positioning itself as head of the church, seeing as how they no longer recognized the King’s right to that duty, they probably had a committee to enforce church attendance. They had a committee for everything else.
Only last week a bailiff had approached her at the guildhall kitchen, asking about her church affiliation. Thinking quickly, she had mentioned the one closest to her, the Church of St Lawrence in the old Jewry. He had asked her name and written it down, then smirking had said, ‘Wouldn’t have taken you for a Church of England type,’ before he passed on. Why had he written down her name? So today, even though she wanted to sleep, she heaved herself out of bed, put on her best bodice and skirt and headed down the three flights of stairs and out the door to the Church of St Lawrence. A good thing, too. As she entered the narthex, a churchwarden with a quill and paper had asked her to sign her name. She had never been asked to sign her name at St Nicholas in Oxfordshire.
The crowd was small. The Anglican priest noticed too. He preached about following false prophets, plainly warning the few congregants he had left, admonishing against the siren’s song of new and strange doctrines. Clearly, he was talking about the new independent congregations that were siphoning off his parishioners. Like the one Patience and Ben attended. She wondered if they had asked for Lord Whittier’s name? She didn’t see him as an especially pious man. If a churchwarden asked for his name, would he give it? Or would he just raise an eyebrow and laugh?
But all in all it was a pleasant enough experience. She sat there in the quiet, surrounded by the stained-glass windows casting rainbows of soothing color across the nave, and was comforted by the familiar liturgy. As usual the service ended a little after midday. As she emerged she thought that today was as good a day as any to run the hateful errand she had decided was necessary.
Ever since she had visited the print shop, she had been thinking about her conversation with Whittier, and the looming threat to Mary Powell’s future should Milton try to divorce her on grounds of abandonment. Caroline h
ad decided that she needed to take some preemptive action of her own. What could it hurt? She would introduce herself to Mr Milton as a friend of Mary’s, come to pay her respects at Mary’s request, explaining that Mary had never meant to tarry so long, but circumstances and the war had intervened. It would be a little bit of a lie. But not really. Mary had upon one occasion made mention of wondering how her husband fared and she’d not ever said that she never intended to return. One thing was sure. If Caroline approached Mr Milton, he would know that his wife had a witness who would defend her against any charge that she had willfully and knowingly abandoned her husband. Thus, he would have no grounds for divorce under existing law. It would at the very least keep Mary’s options open until she was fully aware of her choices: go back to her husband and try to build a life, or live forever with the shame of divorcement.
Caroline hailed the churchwarden just as he was leaving with his book of names tucked under his arm and asked if he knew where John Milton the poet lived. He gave her directions, but then added, ‘He’s a Puritan. I’d steer clear of him, if I was you.’
On this first day of May, she emerged from the interior of the church to see that the bright Mayday promised by a clear dawn had turned to London gray, as if to remind the godly that the Lord frowned on all pagan revels. In anticipation of the coming holiday, Parliament had passed a law against all maypole festivities, pronouncing them filled with superstition and idolatry and leading to licentious behavior. Since it fell on Sunday this year, any Mayday celebration or assembly was sure to be met with more than righteous indignation. But at least the rain held off. No excuse for her not to carry out her dreaded errand.
As she walked the half-mile down Gresham toward Aldersgate Street, she saw no signs of celebration. Only church-goers, clutching their New Testaments tightly, scurried down the higgledy-piggledy lanes to their homes like rabbits to their warrens.
When she turned into the street where Milton lived, she saw a small crowd had gathered at the end of the street, just in front of the arch. Beside a bright ribbon-festooned pole – some brave souls must have erected it under the cover of night – a Puritan preacher’s voice harangued his listeners. At Mr Milton’s townhouse, about halfway down the street, she paused to listen but could only make out a few words: ‘profaning the Sabbath,’ and ‘abomination’ and ‘shameful pagan rituals.’ As a girl, how she had loved Mayday with its music and dancing, girls with flowers in their hair, couples weaving in and out, braiding rainbow ribbons around the pole. No merrymakers in the crowd today. It was one thing to erect a forbidden maypole under cover of darkness in an act of defiance, another altogether to celebrate in the open daylight. Or maybe it was simply that there was nobody left in London who felt like dancing.
She ascended Mr Milton’s steps and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. She knocked again louder, wondering if the housekeeper had the day off and perhaps Mr Milton had not yet returned from church. She was thinking of walking to the end of the street to see if there would – after all – be a confrontation, when the door opened. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Mistress Trapford,’ Caroline said, ‘may I please be admitted? I am a friend of Mistress Milton.’
The girl stared at her from bold, bright eyes. Instead of an apron she wore a gleaming white cap with just a hint of lace on it and a wide lawn collar. Tucking an escaping curl into her cap, she blinked and cocked her head to one side. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘How dost thou know my name?’
‘Your friend Ben told me about you.’
‘Ben the printer’s devil? How dost thou know Ben?’
‘I am his stepmother. He speaks very highly of you.’
‘Funny, he never mentioned thee to me.’ Then her face reddened as if she realized that sounded cheeky. ‘I am sorry, Mistress—’
‘Caroline.’
‘Mistress Caroline, Mistress Milton be not here.’
‘I know she is not. That is why I am here. To give Mr Milton news from his wife.’
The girl looked a little startled at this and strangely flustered, as if she was trying to decide whether to admit her. Finally, she said, ‘Mistress Caroline, I was leaving when I heard thy knock. ’Tis the Sabbath. This is my day off. Mr Milton has just returned from church. I will announce thee, but if …’ She paused and sucked in her breath, as if sucking in courage, ‘If he asks thee if thou would like some refreshment, I would take it as a favor if thou wouldst decline. I have an … appointment.’
Caroline could not help smiling. ‘It is my day off as well. I understand,’ she said, wanting to ask if she was going to meet Ben, but she knew it was not the right time or place.
‘Come with me then,’ she said, and led Caroline down a narrow hallway that opened into an alcove. ‘This is … this is Mistress Caroline Pendleton to see thee, a friend of Mistress Milton. If it pleases thee, I will be leaving now.’
He was sitting in a straight-back chair, gazing out the window. ‘Mistress Pendleton? Ah yes, I remember. You are from Forest Hill. I met you and your husband at …’ But his voice just trailed off here, as if he could not bring himself to invoke his wedding day. ‘An unexpected pleasure,’ his voice said. But his tight expression denied it. Then, calling out to Patience, ‘Tarry just a moment, Trapford. My guest might enjoy some refreshment.’
Patience looked pleadingly at Caroline.
‘Do not trouble your servant on my account, Mr Milton. I imagine since this is the Sabbath, this is her day off.’
He looked slightly annoyed then and said, ‘Quite right, of course. I can find something, I am sure. There is some syllabub in the kitchen, isn’t there, Trapford?’ Then to Caroline, ‘She always prepares a syllabub for me on holidays. Though this is no real holiday.’
‘Syllabub. Yes, sir,’ the girl said, visibly wilting.
‘No. Really, Mr Milton. I would like nothing except a few minutes of your time,’ Caroline said, thinking longingly of the cool creamy goodness. Syllabub had been one of William’s favorite desserts. Though in such a godly household it would probably be whipped without brandy. ‘Please. Do not tarry, Mistress Trapford. I wish you blessed company on this Sabbath afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ the girl said, with a smile that betrayed her gratitude, a surprisingly pretty smile that went all the way to her eyes.
Milton moved another straight chair from a table scattered with books and papers close to his by the window. ‘Trapford seems in a fine mood, I must say. I wonder where she goes on Sunday afternoons.’ He said this as though it had never occurred to him to question it before. ‘I do hope she is comporting herself as she should.’
‘She seems a very devout young woman. I would not worry overmuch.’
‘Quite so.’ He drummed his fingers on the side of the chair. She longed to slap them still. ‘How is your husband, is he well? What brings you to London?’
‘I am a widow now. My husband was killed in the war.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Many brave men have been lost.’
She looked down, not wanting him to read in her expression that she did not accept his sympathy. She just needed to accomplish her mission and leave as quickly as possible. ‘I will not keep you, Mr Milton. I will discharge my errand quickly. I know that it is the Sabbath and you are resting from your scholarly labors. I came to see you so that I may report to your dear wife concerning your welfare.’
He tilted his chin up and frowned. ‘Indeed.’
She ignored the skepticism in his tone. ‘Just before I left for London, your wife beseeched me to carry a message to you that she is indeed sorry that the war has prevented her from coming to you.’ Smiling with what she hoped he would perceive as sincerity, she added, ‘Mary will be so relieved to hear that you are well. I think the separation has increased her fondness for you.’
It was as though, from a narrow distance, she was watching herself watching him, and was surprised and even alarmed that the lie came so easily – so convincing, she could almost believe it herself.
She was less certain that he did.
‘Will she be relieved?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows to almost touch the carefully coiffed fringe on his forehead.
‘Oh, most certainly.’ She allowed herself a sympathetic sigh. ‘I am sure you must be lonely here without her. But life at Forest Hill has not been easy. It has been difficult for Mary there. They are overrun with churlish soldiers foisted on them, all those extra mouths to feed and no help. The manor to be maintained. Her brothers have gone off to war and the younger children are no help. Endless days of drudgery. And the boorish soldiers.’
‘Boorish soldiers?’
‘Oh, do not worry. Mistress Milton is quite firm with them. There was just one really who required setting straight. A captain. Quite smitten with her. But she did not hesitate to tell him that she was a married woman and her husband was a famous writer in London who had written for the Queen and he would not tolerate any disrespectful behavior.
‘Did she really say that?’
She tried to feign disbelief that he would question it. ‘Yes, she told me herself.’
Or some version of that. When had she become such an accomplished liar? Distressing really. And on a Sabbath. But the ox was truly in the ditch.
‘I can’t help but observe that the war did not stop you from coming to London.’
‘Oh, my dear sir, you would not have wanted your wife to travel the way I did. I traveled most of the way hidden in the back of a wooden cart. A torturous and frightful journey. I had nothing left to stay there for,’ she said. ‘I would only have been a burden to my friends. No home. No livelihood. My husband had a leasehold in London. I thought to go there, only to find it had been claimed by the Committee of Three Kingdoms for their officers. Though I am allowed a small apartment, so don’t think that I have sought you out asking for help. I am fine and have found employment.’ She clapped her hands together in a gesture of satisfaction. ‘And seeing you looking so well I am quite relieved that I can assure Mary that her husband is well and waiting for her to return.’
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