'This is a sad blow,' answered Mr Gadd with suitable solemnity. His legal mind at once assessed it: 'Did he have children?'
'I believe not.'
'A blessing… How distressed you must be to lose him.'
'Ralph was the finest fellow,' said Lovell in a perfunctory way he had. 'So here's the situation, Gadd: as soon as my father's first grief has abated, I shall attempt to mend matters. I would go to him at once, but I should look like a poxy opportunist…' Lovell spoke without irony.
'Do not besmirch your honest motives with such a suggestion,' chided Mr Gadd. He had nothing against poxy opportunists, if they fitted his own plans. With Ralph Lovell dead, and childless, Orlando was the heir.
So, on the basis that he was a gentleman, whose father was a gentleman of substance, Mr Gadd found Orlando Lovell's claim for Juliana acceptable. Documents were drawn up with the haste that comes in wartime. Lovell then rejoined the King's army on its journey to London and what would be the stand-off at Turnham Green.
Just before he mounted up and rode off, he turned back and kissed his new betrothed. Until that moment they had exchanged barely a handshake. Juliana received the kiss calmly, though a thrill shot through her and the warmth of his mouth pressing firmly on hers lingered in her memory for days.
She was not in love with Orlando Lovell, though she considered that she could be. She was smiling as the cavalier swung into the saddle and gave her a gallant wave of his black, feathered hat; from then on she looked for news of the King's campaign with a new interest and a new anxiety. The prospect of Lovell's return gave her the excitement every bride deserves to feel.
After the fiasco at Turnham Green, the King reversed his march and returned to Oxford, which was now destined to be his home and his military headquarters. Lovell did not revisit Wallingford en route, but he wrote: he and Juliana would go into lodgings in Oxford. He was busy finding somewhere, and would soon bring a marriage licence. Juliana must accompany him to Oxford; she had no other place of safety. Mr Gadd was anxious to return to Somerset where he would resume his quiet retirement, or as quiet as it could be during a civil war. Juliana had no other friends or relatives to give her a home. She could not expect to seek safety among the Lovell family, whose present feelings towards Orlando were untested. If he invited them to his wedding, they must have refused. Besides, Juliana was a bride of spirit, who wished to be beside her husband.
Lovell seemed pleased to take her to Oxford with him and he made the arrangements quickly. As the new royal headquarters, the town was crammed with more people than it could happily contain. Numbers increased daily. Even small houses were overflowing, sometimes with five or six soldiers billeted on reluctant civilians who had barely house room for their own families. The best Lovell could find was one room, though it was in the house of a glover so there would be no industrial or market smells.
'Will he charge us much rent?' Juliana asked nervously.
'He can charge what he likes; he won't be paid. I am a soldier, quartered upon him by the rules of war, and he must accept it.'
Lovell's quick-witted bride at once foresaw that she would receive a cold welcome. She grew perturbed about food, heating and laundry. From her past life, though she kept the reasons from Lovell, she knew that a landlord who was being paid no rent would refuse to provide meals, coals or clean bedding; he might loathe tenants coming and going; he was likely to be abusive.. Lovell pinched her cheek affectionately and declared all would be well. Fortunately for him, he was marrying a girl whose past history had taught her resilience; perhaps he suspected it when he chose her. Juliana remembered her grandmother complaining of landlords' faults in more than one lodging house, as the Carlills had shifted from place to place; she only wished she could remember how Grand-mere had dealt with it.
Even before the church service she began to see that to be struggling among the gentry was no different from struggling at lower levels of society. Still, she was becoming a gentlewoman, as her grandmother had yearned for her to be. Juliana had faith in her new husband's obvious ambition. She and Lovell together would make a determined couple; they should be able to climb as high as they wanted.
The service took place at St Leonard's Church, Wallingford, which had a Royalist rector, Richard Pauling — a man who had told his congregation that the leaders of Parliament were 'men of broken fortunes who have spent their means lewdly'. In accordance with the Book of Common Prayer, his wedding sermon emphasised that marriage was for the avoidance of fornication, dwelling less on its benefits for the mutual society, help and comfort of the partners. Eliding into the usual instructions to procreate, he expressed an enthusiastic hope that any children would be brought up in habits of 'obedience', where it was understood he meant obedience to the King. Since he assumed both parties were stalwart Royalists, he did not dwell on it.
During his duller passages, Juliana imagined how much havoc she could wreak if she jumped up and claimed to be an Antinomian by religion and a Pymite by politics…
Although her opinions were quiet and conservative, she was intellectually curious. She knew that John Pym was the arch rebel, and she understood why. In the public mind, Antinomianism was viewed as a particularly scandalous cult, since its devotees believed that they were under no obligation to obey any instructions from religious authorities. This would seriously distress the Reverend Pauling. Mr Gadd had explained to Juliana, one peaceful evening after dinner, that Antinomianists rejected the notion that obedience to a code of religious law was necessary for salvation. Gadd cheerily discussed why this doctrine was seen as leading inevitably to licentiousness: it was assumed that any Antinomian must have chosen his theology solely to justify unrestrained debauchery…
These whimsical thoughts kept Juliana sane during the lengthy service. Lovell, she thought, had simply braced himself. He appeared to be in a kind of coma.
Since neither bride nor groom had a local home parish, the union was by special licence, obtained from the Bishop of Oxford. Their witnesses were William Gadd and the ever-forgiving Edmund Treves. Still in love with Juliana, Treves was composing in his head a lyrical poem called 'On Juliana's Wedding'; at least the lopsided verses petered out quickly. No scholar emerged from Oxford University without knowing that a lyrical poem should be brief.
For female support, Juliana had only Little Prue, who saw no reason to cease gurning at the bride as if she thought Juliana was a witch.
No witch would be attired in a gown of deep peacock-blue satin over a silver petticoat, with cuffs and collar of antique Paris lace. These materials had been stored up among sheaves of dry lavender in a chest of her grandmother's for twenty years. Juliana only timidly believed herself worthy of the satin, yet she feared that in a time of war it would be lost altogether if it was not put into use. The chest, now hers, was her only dowry and trousseau. It contained finely embroidered household linen, much of it her grandmother's handiwork, in sufficient quantity to convince Lovell that the Carlills once possessed wealth and must still have it. When Juliana opened the chest and showed its contents, she could tell he had hoped to see money instead.
Lovell had looked absolutely ready to bolt when he noticed the chest contained exquisite baby-clothes. He had forgotten that marriage meant children. Still, any fine goods would have commercial value. A tactful bridegroom, he refrained from saying so.
They spent their wedding night at Wallingford, where the judge's house provided comfort, space and privacy. A supper was arranged, at which the officiating parson presented himself. After Juliana withdrew to the bridal chamber, Mr Gadd, Parson Pauling and Edmund Treves encouraged Lovell with the traditional bridegroom's toasts to put him in good heart for his duties, overdoing it by a good deal, as was also traditional.
Upstairs, Juliana was attended by Little Prue. The sombre maid helped her undress and brought her the finely embroidered nightdress that was her grandmother's last good piece of work. Nobody had supplied any lessons on what now awaited her; Juliana was reliant upon wha
t she could remember of her grandmother's blunt descriptions of sexual exchanges. It was her good fortune that Roxanne had spoken out openly. No traumatic surprises would horrify Juliana. In fact, so detailed were her grandmother's stories that when she had lain waiting for some time in the exquisite bridal nightdress, and the bed had warmed, Juliana slipped from between the sheets, took off the nightdress, which she folded neatly on a country chair, and climbed back in bed to await her husband naked. This was not to seduce Lovell. She saw no point in having a beautiful garment damaged by passion.
Her wait was lengthy. Many brides fell asleep at this point. Instead, Juliana lay quietly, in the judge's best bedroom with its dark panelled walls and a small fire flickering in the fireplace. She could still hear the faint voices of her wedding guests enjoying themselves in the parlour downstairs. A window seat looked over the garden; she could have knelt there and seen Edmund Treves revelling in his misery as her disappointed suitor, until he grew too cold in the November night air and went indoors, red-nosed, to get stupidly drunk. Even with the judge absent, it had been possible to find and hang the bed's robustly decorated woollen curtains. A narrow turkey rug lay beside the four-poster on the worn old floorboards. The room had been supplied with basic necessities: candlestick, chamberpot, warming pan and coals. There was a prayer book, though Juliana did not imagine her new husband would like to discover her at prayer.
For once, she was enjoying her sense of security in this spacious English room with its desirable, comfortable fittings. Already, she had forebodings about the future. Marriage might not be a haven. She knew, from what Lovell had told her about their rented room in the glover's house, that the first weeks would probably contain all the usual difficulties. At least now there would be two of them. She would not have to face the future alone.
Eventually voices came nearer, as the guests escorted the groom upstairs, all their feet stumbling tipsily on the staircase. Lovell was pushed into the room, but managed to slam shut the bedroom door behind him before anyone else entered. He waited, leaning against the door, until the others were heard retreating.
The fire had dimmed, but by its last faint light Juliana watched Lovell undress. Each masculine garment fell to the floor with a strangely heavy thud. When he turned towards the bed her heart was pounding. When he came to the bedside, she was pleasingly surprised that he paused, tilted his head a little to one side and looked down at her fondly. She was his. He had chosen her (she had chosen him).
'Here we are,' he said. 'Lovell and Lovell's wife…' Juliana gazed up at him with a dry throat. He smiled; he had a good smile, and he knew it. 'They have made me too tipsy to acquit myself resoundingly, but I shall do my best for you.'
His best on that occasion was brief. The experience left Juliana neither hurt nor shocked. Nor was she much moved, but she felt grateful for his attentions and for his polite thanks afterwards. When it was over, for one extravagantly emotional moment, she wanted to admit the truth: that her inherited 'fair orchards' in Kent on which he was laying such great store were nothing more than a modest house with, she had been told, a few undistinguished old apple trees. The house did not even yet belong to her.
Lovell had fallen asleep. By the next time they were speaking, her moment of would-be confession had passed.
When Juliana awoke in the morning, she heard Lovell relieving himself heartily by the pot-cupboard. Ruefully she recalled one of her grandmother's sarcastic comments on marriage: 'It is all pretending not to hear when they fart, and listening to them pissing in the pot!' She felt stiff, exhilarated that she was a wife, and badly in need of similar relief. As soon as Lovell returned to his side of the bed and fell back in, groaning, she slipped out on the opposite side and availed herself. Hot steam rising from the chamberpot after her husband's contribution gave her a start, but she brazened it out. They were together now. Every intimacy could be, would be, must be shared.
She had intended to rise and dress, but the air was so chilly, she scampered back to the warmth of the bed. As she shot under the coverlet, she landed with Lovell's arm around her. He had turned to her, shadowed eyes thoughtful.
'Well, madam!'
'Well, sir.'
Sweet nothings. Nothing indeed. 'Must I still call him Captain Lovell or may I say Orlando?' They had exchanged vows and spent a night of love together, yet remained strangers.
Perhaps Lovell noticed the gust of loneliness that swept over his bride. Certainly he was gazing down at her from a close enough position to witness every flicker that passed across her normally candid grey eyes. 'We shall be comfortable soon enough,' he told Juliana in a low voice. I must discover her pet name… no; find a name for her myself. His free hand was caressing her throat, as if unaware he was doing it.
Sober now, he knew just what he was doing. Juliana would never ask him, but she thought it probable that the young girl he tried to elope with had been returned to her parents more experienced than she should have been. It was best not to speculate how many other women Lovell had bedded since, nor what quality they were. 'It will be better for you if he has done it!' she heard her grandmother cackle. But it left Juliana feeling her inequality.
'I have been wondering' — she forced herself to converse — 'whether those who have been sweethearts from childhood find their wedding night easier…' It was ridiculous to be so shy with a man who had entered so closely into places she had never really believed others were intended to go.
Juliana closed her eyes. She was enjoying the pleasure Lovell's hands insidiously brought her. In small circling movements the light fingers of his right hand had come to her left breast, where the nipple reacted eagerly. Lovell bent his head to it. Juliana murmured with pleasure. Her back arched -
'Juliana, you are a man-lover!' She blushed hotly, horrified by the thought, ashamed that she had revealed too much of herself, frightening herself that her nature was improper. This was an impossible predicament; a respectable wife must not be prim, yet she could not be too forward either -
'I am as I always was — '
'Not quite the same, I hope!' Laughing, Lovell cut off her protest, his hand now sliding down her belly as the proprietor who had taken her maidenhead.
It could so easily all have gone wrong at that moment. Juliana was upset and wanted to flee from him. But Lovell only laughed with conspiratorial mockery then — fired by the exchange — he turned more urgently to the activities of a husband, which he this time fulfilled commendably. His bride was left shaken, exhilarated, and as they lay together spent, she heard once again her raucous grandmother: 'Let the man do sufficient that he can boast of it to himself…'
Being Lovell, he would boast openly to everyone — if he chose to do it. Being Lovell, however, he might gain greater pleasure from keeping secrets. Juliana was already enough of his wife to know that.
Chapter Fourteen — Oxford: 1642-43
Juliana Lovell, still uneasy with her new name, arrived in the first month that Oxford was the King's permanent headquarters.
December was not the best time here. Low mist clung to the many country waterways. The hedgerows were dark, the sere trees gloomy of aspect. Houses on the city perimeter had been blown up for strategic reasons, leaving ugly gaps. Tentative efforts were being made to construct fortifications to replace the now-useless medieval city walls, but the hard frosted ground was resisting the tools wielded by thoroughly disgruntled citizens. This was a garrison, crammed to bursting point with soldiery and the great equipment of war. The once-pleasant, meadow-fringed River Cherwell, which formed the upper reaches of the Thames, was already oozing with pestilence as the raw sewage from impossible numbers of people mingled with dead horses and dogs that blocked the current, bobbing amidst oily bubbles under the willows that trailed their slender fingers into waters befouled by butchers' bloody rejects and fermenting horticultural garbage. Smoke from house-fires and minor industries curdled the atmosphere. A miasma of unease seeped through the cobbled streets, from the chilly castle to the C
ornmarket where the lead roof had been stripped to make bullets.
Unwelcome to the townspeople, the King had ensconced himself in Christ Church College. Prince Rupert was at Magdalen. The Warden's Lodge at Merton had been earmarked for the absent Queen, should she ever arrive. The colleges sycophantically professed themselves honoured by their noble guests — except when unwanted new masters were dumped on them at royal command. In more humble areas there was frank resistance to billeting, as the domestic routine of the little people's little houses was brutally disrupted. Fear riffled through the winding backstreets. Bullying took over in the taverns. Needless to say, as stationers and booksellers braced themselves for bankruptcy, all the brewers were flourishing.
Her family had wandered about in search of trade, yet Juliana had never been in a university town before. Oxford colleges would have known quiet hours before this unending military crush but the peace of the cloisters had been lost. While the carriage Lovell had borrowed to fetch her from Wallingford forced its way through the cobbled streets, she flinched at the turmoil. Juliana saw that Lovell was excited by the bustle beyond the carriage's cloudy windows. Assuring her she would get used to the commotion, he rattled off a commentary: 'The perimeter defences are being thrown up by the townspeople; everyone between sixteen and sixty has to work one day a week. About one in a hundred actually turn up, of course. I shall not allow you to do it.' Juliana wondered how he would accomplish this autocratic refusal; already she guessed he would give his instructions to her, and leave her to address the authorities. 'Possibly the breastworks will never be complete, but if they are, this town will be the best defended in England so don't fret. There's a Dutchman, de Gomme, supervising the works. Supposed to be brilliant. Let us hope someone has told the herring-eating bastard we're not building dykes but battlements!'
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