“Your father!”
“My father will fall hopelessly in love with you.”
“Toby! You said he won’t even meet me!”
Toby smiled again, one finger on her cheek. “He will. He’ll have to. He can’t refuse to meet my wife, can he?”
She looked at him, a small frown on her face. “Are we mad, Toby?”
“Probably.” He smiled. “But all will be well, I promise you. All will be well.”
She believed him, but then she was in love, and lovers always believe that fate is on their side.
Sir George Lazender, alone in his upstairs parlor of the house he would leave in two weeks’ time, lit a pipe of his beloved tobacco and wished that the popular belief, that the tobacco-leaf was a dangerous substance giving rise to unnatural fervor and strange fancies, was true. He faced too much reality, too many problems.
He was about to alienate his son-in-law and his eldest daughter. He did not think the enmity would run deep, but they would undoubtedly become enemies.
Now he had estranged Toby.
Twice the soldiers had searched the house for his son, and twice Sir George had truthfully said that he did not know Toby’s whereabouts. He suspected his son was staying in the city and he hourly dreaded the news that Toby had been arrested and imprisoned.
It was the girl’s fault. The Slythe girl. Sir George felt anger. She must be a conniving, ambitious girl to have snared his son.
He walked to the eastern window and stared down into the street. It was dark, the lights of a few torches fitful. Two soldiers, their helmets catching the red glare of the flames, paced toward the Royal Mews. An empty cart went the other way.
And what a story she had told Toby to snare him! Tales of a Covenant, of a seal, of a fortune so big that it belonged to a child’s imagination. Yet Toby believed her! He had spoken to his father of Sir Grenville Cony, of Lopez and Aretine, of a jewel on a chain. It was all nonsense.
Sir Grenville Cony was a respected member of Parliament, a Chancery lawyer who had done brilliantly and who now moved the levers of power in the Committees of Parliament. What could Sir Grenville have to do with a country Puritan?
Lopez. Sir George knew of a dozen Lopez’s, Spanish Jews all, and none were left in England, though Sir George suspected that a few Jews lived quietly and untroubled within the city. Lopez. What could a Spanish Jew have to do with a girl from Dorset?
And Aretine. Sir George admitted to a twinge of pleasure at the memory. Christopher Aretine, always known as Kit, friend of Jack Donne, and dead, Sir George supposed, these many years. Kit Aretine was the only Aretine Sir George knew of, though it was possible there were more. Lady Margaret would know; she knew all the leading families.
Sir George had never met Kit Aretine, though he had heard him spoken of a hundred times in his youth. The wildest man in England, Jack Donne used to say, a man who could outfight, outwit and outlove any man in England. A rogue with the ladies, a wit, a poet, and a man who had been put in the Tower by King James. Somehow he had got himself out, but only at the price of perpetual banishment from England.
Sir George puffed at his pipe, wreathing himself with smoke, and tried to remember what else he knew of Aretine. A bad poet, Sir George seemed to remember, too much passion and not enough discipline. He must be dead now. Once a man got into print, Sir George knew, he developed a taste for more, and Aretine had not published these twenty years or more. Dear God! What could a dead poet have to do with the Slythe family?
Toby said the girl was beautiful, and Sir George made a scornful noise at the memory. Any girl was beautiful if you were twenty-four, just as any food looked appetizing to a hungry man. Sir George walked back to his chair, regretting the empty bookshelves about him. The volumes were packed away, ready to travel.
At least Toby had promised him one thing. He would return to Lazen Castle as soon as this foolish business with the girl was done. Sir George feared, feared mightily, that his son might marry the Slythe girl on the way, but Toby had promised to talk to his mother first. Sir George smiled.
Lady Margaret Lazender would end the girl’s hopes. Sir George almost felt sorry for her, pitted against such a formidable enemy. Sir George had sent a letter with the Earl of Fleet, that would reach Lazen Castle long before Toby did. It forewarned Lady Margaret, and a forewarned Lady Margaret was even more dangerous.
“The girl is, bye Tobie’s owne Account, quite Unlettered except in the Scriptures. She knoes No Manners except Those of the Puritans, and her Birthe ye knowe as well as I.
“The Girl has Persuaded Tobie, bye Means I scarce credit, that she must inherit Monie. It is a Fancifull tale, a romance as headie as Tobie’s braines.”
Sir George remembered the letter. Did his son not know he must marry money? Dear God! The Old House at Lazen needed tiling and the watermill must have a new shaft. Sir George knew what the old shaft had cost in his grandfather’s time and he dreaded to think what it must be at today’s prices. If Toby did not marry money then the rents at Lazen would have to be raised and that was a step Sir George and Lady Margaret shrank from.
It was not simply a question of money. Toby must marry birth, breeding, a girl whose manners were equal to Lazen’s responsibilities. Sir George shook his head sadly.
“He has promised mee, Faithfullie, That He will seeke you Before he marries the Girl. I beg you to Deale Firm with them.” That sentence, he knew, would bring a smile to his wife’s lips, wondering why her husband had not dealt more firmly. “The Girl must be sent Back to Werlatton, and If She must be Paide for her Silence, Then I knoe you will bee Discreet. Tobie, as hee desires, Must goe to Oxford to Fight for His Majestic.
“I sende this Letter with John, who does not knoe my Minde on Matters of State. I beg you not to tell him, but waite Upon my arrivall.”
Sir George puffed his pipe. Toby would recover from this infatuation and the girl would too. She would marry someone, some canting Puritan who would make her fat on babies and trade. Lady Margaret would deal with it, as she always dealt with problems. Sir George could leave it in her capable hands.
Toby came for Campion at five o’clock the next afternoon. He had adopted a simple disguise, donning the leather jacket of a soldier and covering his distinctive red curls with a greasy, leather helmet-liner. He had not shaved that morning, so that he looked faintly sinister and brutal. It was an effect he liked. Campion was already aware of his penchant for play-acting. He loved to mimic, to pretend to be other than he was, and she had seen, with the man in St. Giles, how useful that talent could be. Today, though, she stopped him as he played the part of a brutal soldier in the Strand. “If you don’t calm down, Toby, I’ll walk on the other side of the street.”
He had been growling and giving combative stares to innocent passers-by. He grinned. “I’ll obey orders, ma’am, simple soldier that I am.”
She stopped when she saw the strange stone beasts on the cornice of Sir Grenville Cony’s house. “I’m nervous.”
“Of what?”
“What do I say to him?” Her blue eyes stared guilelessly at Toby, who laughed.
“We’ve talked about it for a week. You know what to say.”
“But suppose he won’t answer?”
“Then we go to Lazen, get married, and forget all about it.”
She moved into the doorway of a building to avoid the crowds who pushed past them. “Why don’t we do that anyway?”
“Do you want to?”
She smiled. “Yes. But.”
“But you’re curious. So am I!” For a moment Toby was tempted. They could walk away, they could run away, and they could abandon the Covenant and the seal as part of a world Campion wished to forget. They could find a priest, get married and Toby did not care one whit for the opposition of his parents, so long as he was with this golden, calm-faced beauty.
She looked shyly at him. “If I truly had ten thousand pounds a year, would your father approve of me?”
“He would for a thousand
!” Toby laughed. “The roof of the Old House will overcome any of his principles.”
She looked past him at Sir Grenville Cony’s house. “Perhaps he won’t want to see me.”
“So find out.”
“I wish you could come in with me.”
“So do I, but I can’t.” He smiled. “He’s an important Parliament man, remember? He’d have to arrest me on the spot, and I don’t think that would help you.”
She looked at him decisively. “I’m being stupid. What can he do to me? Either he tells me or he doesn’t.”
“Correct. And I shall wait for you outside.”
“Then Lazen?”
“Then Lazen.”
She smiled. “I’ll get it over with.”
“One minute!” He had been holding a leather bag which he had not explained to her, but which he now picked up, unlaced, and drew out what it held.
It was a cloak of powder blue, a silvery touch to the threads, and he held it up so she could see the silver clasp at its throat. “For you.”
“Toby!” It was lovely. The cloth had a sheen that made her want to touch it, to wear it, and he tenderly put it about her shoulders, then stepped back.
“You look beautiful.” He meant it, too. A woman, passing the doorway, looked at Campion and smiled.
Toby was pleased. “It’s your color. You should always wear that blue.”
“It’s wonderful!” She wished she could see herself, but even to the touch it felt luxurious. “You shouldn’t have done it!”
“I shouldn’t!” He mocked her gently.
“I like it.”
“It’s your travelling cloak.” He twitched it unnecessarily. It hung to perfection on her slim, tall body in long folds. “You can wear it down to Lazen. Now give it back to me.”
“No!” She smiled in delight. “I shall wear it now. I shall wear it in Cony’s house and I’ll know I have something of yours.” She clutched the edges of the cloak. “May I?”
He laughed. “Of course.” He held out his arm to her, a strangely courteous gesture from such a villainous looking man, and escorted her across the Strand.
She had half expected the alleyway beside Cony’s house to be crowded with petitioners. Today, she had been told, was the day when Sir Grenville dealt with the public, but to her mild surprise the narrow, dark alley was as deserted as before. The river gleamed at the far end.
“Toby!” She had stopped short of the porchway.
For a moment he thought her nerve had failed her, but then he saw her hands busy at her throat. “What is it?”
“Here.” She held something to him. “I want you to have something of mine while I’m in the house.”
It was the Seal of St. Matthew, golden in the rancid alleyway, its chain swinging from Toby’s palm. He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?” She would not take it back.
“Because you might need it in there. Maybe it’s the proof he’ll need to give you some answers.”
“Then I’ll come and get it from you.”
“But it’s yours! It’s valuable!”
“It’s ours! Keep it for me.”
“I’ll give it back when you come out.”
She smiled. “All right.” He put it about his neck, inside his shirt and leather jerkin, and he was glad she had given it to him. He needed something of hers at this moment, for lovers need talismans, and the gold felt good against his skin.
“I’ll wait for you.”
They kissed, as they had kissed a thousand times in the week, and then she walked purposefully toward the door and pulled the iron-handled chain. She was early, but she wanted this meeting done quickly. She had a life to live, a life she had only dared dream of in the unhappiness of Werlatton, and once this meeting with Sir Grenville Cony was over, she could leave with Toby.
The bell had sounded deep inside the house.
She turned to Toby. “I’ll think of you.”
“I love you.”
The shutter snapped open. “Yes?”
She turned. “I’m Miss Slythe, to see Sir Grenville Cony.”
“You’re early.” The voice was ungracious. The shutter snapped down and for a moment Campion thought she would not gain entry, but then came the sound of bolts being withdrawn, a bar being lifted and the wooden door swung open.
A thin, sallow young man stood there. He beckoned her inside. She turned once, smiled at Toby, and went into the dark passageway.
Toby saw the cloak swirl splendid in the gloom, saw her start to climb a brief flight of stone steps, and then the door slammed shut.
He listened to the echo of the door die away and, for an instant, it seemed that the house was utterly and strangely silent.
Then came the sound of the bolts being shot to, of the bar dropping into its iron brackets, unnaturally loud in the dark alley. He frowned, spoke Campion’s name aloud, but the house was again silent.
Nine
Campion was shown into a spacious, empty room. It was quite silent, almost as if this was the heart of the strange quietness that emanated from the house. Even the clerks, in their gloomy, unseasonably chill room, seemed to make no noise as they put quills to curled papers. The man who had opened the door, evidently one of the clerks himself, had left, saying Sir Grenville would be with her soon. Then, disturbingly, he had locked the door behind him.
She hesitated, wondering whether she ought to wander free in such a private, silent chamber, but the view from the great mullioned windows drew her soundlessly across the deep carpet. The room looked on to the River Thames, and the silence within the house was made even more strange by the evidence of busy life upon the river. A score of boats were within sight, yet not one sound reached this rich, quiet room. Below her, entered from the floor beneath, was a garden of espaliered pear trees, of neat flowerbeds surrounded by gravel walks, all leading to a private pier that jutted into the river.
Alongside the pier was a barge, white-painted and beautiful. In it four oarsmen sat erect, their white-bladed oars upright, as if on display or under the watchful eye of a harsh master. In the boat’s stern was a wide, cushioned thwart where she imagined Sir Grenville sitting in state.
She turned from the tall, velvet-curtained windows. The room, though rich, was sparsely furnished. In front of the window was a huge table, covered in papers which she supposed was Sir Grenville’s desk. Behind it, facing the room, was an immense chair, its arms splayed, the whole upholstered in shining leather. In the room’s center, facing the desk, was a single, spindly chair that looked out of keeping with the rest of the room which was dominated by a huge, carved marble fireplace on the wall facing the window. Logs were laid for a fire that would not, she guessed, be lit till autumn. The room’s single picture was vast above the fireplace.
It was a picture that could be concealed by wooden shutters, limewashed oak like the panelling of the room, but which now were folded back to show the large, gorgeous, and shocking portrait. A young man sat naked in a sunlit glade of a dark forest. His body was slim, muscled, and hard. His skin was tanned by the sun. Campion found herself thinking that Toby’s naked body would look as tough and beautiful, and she was embarrassed by the thought. It shocked her, as much as it pleased her, but then she forgot such speculations for she was entranced by the face of the young man.
It was an extraordinary face, a splendid, arrogant, pagan face. That face, she thought, ought to be framed by a gilded helmet and be staring at a conquered land. The young man had golden hair, falling either side of a wide, cruel mouth. She had never imagined that any man could be so handsome, so frightening, and so desirable.
The naked man was not looking out of the picture, but rather staring down at a pool hidden among rocks. The painter had showed the pool by letting its reflections gild the fine face, just as the sun was reflected by the Thames in liquid light ripples that moved on Sir Grenville Cony’s ceiling.
The face still held her. She wondered if she would want to meet such a man, and then
she tried to tell herself that no man could be so handsome, so golden, so arrogant, so perfect. This was a painter’s fantasy, no more, yet still she could not take her eyes from the startling features.
“You like my painting.” She had not heard the second door, the door by the desk, open. She turned, startled, and in the doorway was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. She was staring at a grotesque man, of stunning ugliness, who seemed to smile derisively at her.
Sir Grenville Cony, she supposed it must be he, was short. His monstrously fat belly was supported by thin, spindly legs that looked unequal to the task of holding such obscene grossness. His face was uncannily like the face of a frog, with a wide, mirthless slash of a mouth beneath bulging, pale eyes. His hair was white and curly. His brown, rich clothes were taut on his huge belly. He looked from her to the painting, to the life-size naked figure above her head. “It is Narcissus in love with himself. I keep it to remind myself of the dangers of self-regard. You would not want me, Miss Slythe, to turn into a flower?” He chuckled. “It is Miss Slythe?”
“Yes, sir.”
The bulging eyes stared at her. “You know who Narcissus was, Miss Slythe?”
“No, sir.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a Puritan. You know your Bible stories, no doubt?”
“I hope so, sir.” She felt Sir Grenville was mocking her. He smiled.
“Narcissus was a young man of such beauty, Miss Slythe, that he fell in love with himself. He would spend hours gazing at his own reflection and, as a punishment, he was turned into a flower, that flower we now call the narcissus. Do you think he is handsome?”
She nodded, embarrassed by the question. “Yes, sir.”
“And so he is, Miss Slythe, so he is.” Sir Grenville was staring at his painting. “That picture is also a punishment.”
“A punishment, sir?”
“I knew the young man, Miss Slythe, and I offered him my friendship, but he chose to be my enemy. I had his face put on to that picture as revenge, so that everyone would think that he was my friend, would believe that he had posed like that.” He was looking at her, laughing at her. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
A Crowning Mercy Page 12