“The canvasses are easily stored without their frames. You can remove them and the tapestries, and lay them flat under the rafters of the house. If you hang some of your less prized works of art in their place, Colonel Massey’s troopers won’t look very far, unless they’re as discerning in taste as you are yourself. As for the bronzes,” Laurence suggested, “you might sink them in the river – weigh down the lighter ones and chain them together.”
“And what could be done with my horses? It will break Jacob’s heart, should the rebels take them away. He has bred and raised them for generations, and is fonder of them than his own children.”
“I don’t blame him – horses must be less of a nuisance.”
“On the subject of children, my boy, you ought to call upon Mistress Fur—”
“Who’s singing at the virginals?” interrupted Laurence quickly.
Lord Beaumont keened an ear to listen. “Elizabeth has not touched that instrument since Ormiston’s death! She may be recovering her old spirit. Would you ask her to play me my favourite air by Dowland? ‘Come again, sweet love doth now invite,.’ ” he sang, in his tuneful tenor.
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to oblige you,” Laurence said.
When he walked into the parlour, Elizabeth was still playing. The beatific look on her face changed, as he shut the door behind him. “What is it, Laurence?”
“Liz, are you in love with Price?”
She dropped her hands into her lap, and took a deep breath. “Remember when we spoke here about my situation, and I asked if you had any potential suitors for me among your friends?”
“Yes.”
“And later you denied whisking Mr. Price away from Anne and Ingram’s banquet, to keep him from me.” Laurence nodded, now regretting that he had not told her more of the truth about Price. “And last night you invited him to stay. I presume he is your friend.”
“He is, of a sort.”
“Not like Ingram?”
“I have few, if any, friends like Ingram. Liz, you hardly know Price.”
“You hardly know Pen Furnival, and you are about to propose to her.”
“I’m not marrying for love. And our mother has gone to inordinate lengths to ensure that she’ll make me a suitable wife.”
“Why would Mr. Price not be suitable for my husband? Is it because he has debts?”
Laurence blinked at her. “When did he tell you that?”
“When I happened to pass by his chamber, as he was about to go to bed.”
Laurence recalled Price, subdued at table, sneaking glances at Elizabeth; then sulky, upstairs; and next assailed by fatigue in the space of half an hour. “You happened to pass by?”
“I wished to bid him goodnight.”
“And this brought on a discussion of his debts?” She coloured. “Did he profess his love for you?”
“We talked of our feelings.”
“Ah, then it was a mutual profession,” said Laurence; no wonder Sue had faded so rapidly from Price’s fancy.
“Laurence, your protective urge is natural in an older brother, but I am a grown woman and I have been a wife. I might add that as a sign of his respect, Mr. Price has refused to court me without our father’s agreement.”
“I should damned well hope he has.”
“I see no reason for you to oppose our courtship, unless you’re aware of some dread secret he is hiding.”
Price’s secrets were tawdry rather than dread, Laurence reflected. “Price was born poor. He’s had to do some less than … honourable things to survive.”
“What things?”
“It’s not my place to discuss them – it’s his. But I have done some of these same things and worse, with far less need given my advantages in life. I know from experience how they can affect a man’s character, to his detriment. Price may love you, but he may also love what you could bring him. I’m not sure which is most important to him. He may not be sure himself.”
“What difference does it make, if we’re happy together?”
“It could make a great difference, believe me: as his wife, you’ll be his property by law – and your property will be his. Don’t be in such a rush. You’ll have other offers.”
“Not while you men are busy fighting in this accursed war. I’d prefer to be widowed again, than miss an opportunity for happiness.”
Laurence decided not to argue. He could rely upon Lady Beaumont to put a crushing end to Price’s ambitions; and yet he hated Elizabeth to suffer the inevitable pain. “You might consult Anne, before your feelings run riot,” he said. “She showed excellent judgement in her husband, and she’s not as much of a cynic as I am.”
Elizabeth gave an exasperated snort, turned to the keyboard, and launched into a loud, aggressive gigue.
IV.
Normally Draycott wore his best suit of black clothes but once a week, to attend church. This week, he had dressed in it twice: to bury his son, and now to visit Sir Montague Hallam. If not for the mourning band Judith had stitched on his hat, he resembled any lawyer visiting a client. Within, however, he felt as though every nerve in his body were scraped raw. Immersed in his grief, he walked right by Sir Montague’s house; and he longed to carry on walking blindly down the Strand, for as far as his legs would carry him. It required an effort of will to retrace his path, ascend the steps of the handsome red brick mansion, and reach for the brass door knocker.
An elderly manservant accepted his cloak in the entrance hall, led him up to the second floor and through double doors into a wood-panelled gallery that spanned the length of the house, and then left him. On the walls hung tapestries depicting events in the life of Jesus. The Crucifixion scene had the air of a village festival; its gay colours assaulted Draycott’s eyes. He moved to Christ healing the sick; one was a child of about Gregory’s age. Why had Christ not listened to his prayers, and healed his son? Judith had told him to have faith in the Almighty’s Divine purpose, but nothing could justify the torment of those final hours. He nearly agreed with Veech: I cannot think of one sound reason to bring another human being into this world.
“My favourite is the temptation of our Lord,” said someone behind him. “Satan has such a smile upon his face, as of a cat that has stolen the cream.”
Draycott turned; from the low, gritty timbre of the voice he expected a boy. Instead it belonged to a dark-haired woman in shimmering satin whose loveliness momentarily erased his thoughts. The pretty young maid at her side seemed plain in comparison.
He bowed. “May I present myself: Mr. Draycott, legal counsel to Parliament.”
“I am Lady Isabella Hallam. My husband will soon join us. Has Greenhalgh offered you wine?”
“No, my lady,” said Draycott, trying not to stare at her.
“You must sample a glass of Burgundy from our cellar,” Lady Isabella said, with a bewitching smile. “Lucy,” she murmured to the girl, who slipped out obediently. “Mr. Draycott, let us be seated.” As she took a chair and arranged her skirts, Draycott glimpsed a vivid rainbow flash from the massive diamond on her ring finger. “Sir Montague told me that you are come about the licence. You must have distinguished yourself, to represent Parliament on such a lucrative contract. The Company formerly negotiated with one of His Majesty’s lawyers – an astute fellow, according to my husband, and an expert on wine.”
“I can lay claim to neither advantage.”
“You are modest, sir.”
“No, my lady. I am honest.”
“An honest lawyer. You are of a rare species.”
Greenhalgh entered carrying a tray with three glasses on it, followed by Lucy with a crystal flagon. They placed them on a table near Lady Isabella, then Lucy perched on the cushioned ledge by the window, and Greenhalgh disappeared through the gallery doors.
Lady Isabella poured, and as she handed Draycott his glass, he could smell her perfume, delicate yet intoxicating. He could not remember ever being as close to a woman so beautiful. “A rise in duties will b
e unavoidable because of the war,” she was saying. “Are there further changes that Parliament wishes to negotiate?”
“There are, as I must discuss with Sir Montague.” He lifted his glass. “This is a treat for me: I seldom indulge in wine or spirits.”
She pointed to the black band on his hat. “You are in mourning.”
“My … my wife and I lost our eldest son to the phthisic. He was nine years old. It was as if he were drowning in his own blood and spittle. Oh my lady, forgive me for mentioning these details,” he added, embarrassed. “We should thank God he is delivered from suffering.”
“How trivial everything else must appear, in comparison, and how grossly unfair his death,” she said, with such sympathy that his throat choked.
“Have … have you and Sir Montague children?”
“No, nor shall we.” Draycott frowned: she could not be much over twenty-five. “He has sons and daughters from his previous two marriages, and grandchildren,” she elaborated. “He has no need of a third family, at his time of life.”
“That must be a sacrifice for you.”
“Not at all, sir: it simplifies my existence.”
Draycott heard a rattling outside the doors, and Greenhalgh came in pushing a chair constructed on small wheels, with a footrest that extended downwards from the seat. Its occupant was a gentleman in his sixties who must once have been good-looking but had run to fat. His noble Roman nose was speckled with the veins of a drinker, and his blue eyes glinted shrewdly beneath thick white brows. His mouth, framed by a clipped beard and moustache, was full and sensual. He wore a cap over his curled grey hair, a suit of dark red velvet with a broad lace collar, silk hose, and on one of his feet a black kidskin shoe decorated with rosettes. The other foot was bandaged.
“Good day to you, Mr. Draycott,” he said, in a mellifluous voice. “My apologies for presenting myself in this absurd contraption – I’m not always confined to it, but today I am bothered by my gout. Bella, I shall dare a drop, though, to drink our guest’s health.”
After Lady Isabella had poured for him, she beckoned to her maid and whispered in her ear, while Draycott produced the new licence from his document case. When he looked up, Lucy had gone, but Lady Isabella showed no inclination to follow her.
Sir Montague unfurled the paper. “Exorbitant duties, Bella, as we had thought. Mr. Draycott, why should Parliament care to inspect our empty barrels? Has Parliament not weightier matters to attend to, such as the defence of London?”
Veech had told Draycott how to answer. “Since His Majesty’s designs on the City last month, we are bound to inspect all goods for contraband. We know you as an honoured member of the City Corporation, and a loyal ally of Parliament – it is merely procedure.”
“I thank you for reassuring me, yet I might argue that barrels sent back to us void of their contents are no longer goods, per se, but receptacles.”
“I shall have to consult a colleague on the definition, sir. Pardon my ignorance, but why are the barrels returned to you?”
“They are made of English oak by skilled coopers. Inferior wood and poor construction result in spoilage. And the more a barrel is used, the more it tends to flavour the wine it contains, improving even a thin vintage.” Sir Montague shook his head at his wife. “Can you believe the pettifogging, when we are in the midst of war?”
“We must applaud Parliament for its strict adherence to procedure,” said Lady Isabella, with slight irony. “When will the inspections begin, Mr. Draycott?”
“As of the first of March, when the old licence expires, my lady,” Draycott replied, bemused that a woman should participate so confidently in their talk. “Any sooner would be illegal.”
“Then Parliament has broken the law,” said Sir Montague. “A cargo of empty barrels sent a week ago from Oxford was searched in the docks by a servant of Mr. Oliver St. John, Mr. Clement Veech. It is not the sole instance, my agents tell me, and some of the barrels were badly damaged.”
Draycott felt a stab of indignation. “Upon my honour, sir, I had no knowledge of it. I shall investigate the matter.”
“What is past is past, yet these legal inspections may delay our shipments. You must insert a clause into our contract that any financial losses incurred will be compensated to us by Parliament. My lawyers can supply the monetary amounts, which will depend on the extent of the delay. What think you of the Burgundy, sir?”
“It is delicious.”
Lady Isabella replenished their glasses. “Let us drink to all the lawyers who will be gainfully employed in drawing up a second draught of your contract, gentlemen.”
Sir Montague chuckled and winked at her. Unsettled by their complicity and by her teasing, Draycott put down his glass after a small sip, and rose to bid them good day.
Lady Isabella accompanied him downstairs. As Greenhalgh was helping him on with his cloak, she said softly, “It was wrong of me to joke, when you are in distress at home.”
“Please, my lady, think nothing of it.”
“Lucy,” she called out, “Mr. Draycott is about to go.”
Lucy hurried out from some other room on the ground floor; she was holding a basket which she proffered to Draycott. Packed neatly inside were a roasted chicken wrapped in parchment paper, a loaf of new-baked bread, a cake, nuts, and dried fruits, and even a fresh lemon. “My condolences to your wife, sir,” said Lady Isabella.
Draycott thanked her and left, more miserable than when he had entered. He desired her, and he despised himself for it.
——
“You made me look a fool,” he railed afterwards to Veech, at their table in the Saracen’s Head. “You should have told me about those barrels.”
Veech paid no attention. “Did you meet his new wife?”
“Yes. Lady Isabella was very … gracious.”
“Gracious, eh?” Veech laughed. “In two days, you’ll take him an amended version of the licence.” He waved a finger at the black band on Draycott’s hat. “What’s that?”
“It’s in memory of my son. He died.”
“Be rid of it before you call on Sir Montague. The licence doesn’t interest me any more: I want you to become friends with Lady Isabella – good friends, if it won’t tax you. From what I gather, she’s not hard on the eyes.”
“I am a married man, Mr. Veech.”
“And that is an order, sir.”
“What is your interest in her?”
“You’ll know, presently,” said Veech, scanning the taproom as if he owned it.
“Did Parliament accept my terms?” inquired Sir Montague; this time he had hobbled into the gallery leaning on an ebony cane.
“The rate of duty will be reduced by a quarter of the previously stated amount, if the Vintners’ Company will let us inspect all barrels sent back to you,” Draycott said, handing him the contract. “You’ll be recompensed as you stipulated for delays to your trade. Mr. St. John sends his apologies for the illegal search, but asks why Mr. Veech should have discovered traces of sulphur in your empty barrels.”
Sir Montague raised his bushy eyebrows. “Neither gentleman can know much about my trade. Sulphur is often added to preserve wine from mildew on a voyage, especially if it is being shipped from warmer climes.”
“You must understand their concern: sulphur is a component of gunpowder.”
Sir Montague was studying the licence. “I wish Bella were here to look it over with me.” He signed, and then beamed up at Draycott. “I know you are puzzled that I refer to her in my commercial dealings, yet her wits are sharper and her education broader than mine, in many respects.” He laid a hand on Draycott’s arm. “Sir, while she and I are dear companions, she has few young people to entertain her. Would you sup with us now and again, at your leisure – as a friend, and not as the representative of Parliament?”
Draycott experienced another wave of self-disgust. “I should be honoured,” he said.
V.
Sir Harold welcomed Laurence into the hall
with a veneer of heartiness, thinly disguising impatience. “Ah, Mr. Beaumont, we have been asking ourselves when you might next grace us with a visit. How is your shoulder?”
“Better than it was, thank you,” replied Laurence. “Sir, we had news at home that Colonel Massey has increased his raids to supply the Gloucester garrison. I can’t afford a brush with rebel troops, so I must ride for Oxford as soon as I’ve presented my respects to your wife and daughter. I came to tell you that a date for the marriage—”
“Yes, yes, we must fix upon a date,” Sir Harold cut in. “Her ladyship your mother agreed for us to host your wedding banquet – we’re safer here from Massey’s incursions. We’ll just have time to prepare. Today’s the fifth of March, and she was planning for a ceremony in the month of April.”
“Forgive me, sir, but if you would kindly listen: a date can’t be set until I’ve resolved a certain business in Oxford.”
“Do you hear that?” cried Sir Harold to Lady Margaret and Penelope, who looked as disgruntled as her father. “What business is delaying you?” he asked Laurence.
“A matter of my employment with the Secretary of State,” Laurence said, which shut Sir Harold up.
“It is a shame, Mr. Beaumont,” Lady Margaret said, “but God willing, you and our Pen won’t be apart for long.”
“I thank you for your understanding. And now if you’ll excuse my rude departure, I must bid you all goodbye.” Laurence bowed shortly and turned on his heel.
Pen ran after him. “You are lucky to be going back to Oxford, Mr. Beaumont,” she chattered on. “It is so dull in the country – I can’t bear it, myself. I had thought that after our marriage, we might seek lodgings in the city. I have wonderful friends in Her Majesty’s retinue, and Lord Jermyn is—”
“These decisions must wait, Mistress Furnival – and I must leave.”
“I can’t but remark how you have altered towards me,” she exclaimed. “When we were introduced by Her Majesty, you were sparkling with wit and merry conversation, and you were so amiable at your sister’s wedding feast. Aren’t you pleased to be marrying me?”
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