by Mary Luke
He shifted in the chair, remaining silent for a moment, and then addressed the portrait once more. "Yes, I think it will work, m'dear. If we play our cards right—and if God wills it—I think it will work. I think, m'dear, you're going home." He paused a moment, the old sightless eyes glistening and said sadly, "But oh, Chloe, my darling, how I'm going to miss you. . . ."
Qhapter ryght
In the spring of 1700, the twenty-year-old Julian Cushing arrived in England. Sunlit spray made the green coastline luminous as the Sovereign of the Seas plowed steadily forward. Julian regarded the ship's unerring approach to the land he'd expected to be bathed in fog as a good augury. He was profoundly relieved the hazardous several-week crossing had ended and had neither the courage nor the stomach to contemplate the return voyage.
He'd been fortunate to have a tiny cabin to himself. Before sailing, he'd insisted that he must, at any cost, have the large wrapped bundle he was taking to England in his own quarters; it could not be consigned to the hold. Space had been found at the aft end, but the cabin had been barely large enough for both man and parcel, and once Julian had taken his necessities from his trunk, it was removed for lack of space.
It hadn't disturbed him, however, for he now had Miss Chloe Cuddington as his solitary traveling companion. How he'd longed to remove the coverings and feast his eyes on her loveliness! Yet he hadn't dared. The portrait had been professionally wrapped by a Jamestown shipper, and Julian knew he could never replace the covering properly. So he amused himself instead with thoughts of Chloe and the England she had known—of visits he'd make to the very house in the Strand where she'd once lived. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might find other portraits or mementos of this beloved creature who so suddenly and completely had come to dominate his life.
Julian had needed all the amusement—and solace—available.
He'd lived most of his life within sight of the James River and the Atlantic. He couldn't consciously remember learning to sail any more than he could consciously remember learning to swim. The storms and gales that ravaged the Virginia coastline and the killing savagery of the hurricanes that cast ships on the Carolina banks were legendary; they'd been an integral part of his youth. More than once in an emergency, he'd helped workers at the Cushing warehouse load precious bundles of golden tobacco into a ship's hold before inclement weather could reduce it to sodden pulp.
But nothing had prepared him for the cruel ferocity of the mid-Atlantic. Ten days after departure a storm of gigantic proportions had clutched at the Sovereign and tossed it from a watery trough to topmost wave tip, plunging its prow sharply into boiling white water. Outside, the wind shrieked along the shuddering timber decks. Julian had sought to quench his fear and allay his heaving stomach by listening intently to the murderous howl and thrust of the wind. In the past he'd heard the Indians' war cry and yell of ugly triumph as they stooped to scalp a screaming victim. He'd heard the pitiful shriek of animals being slaughtered on his father s plantation during the killing season in the autumn. But nothing had prepared him for the brutal noise of the sea wind; it terrified even as it awed. And finally he'd succumbed. After burying his head for hours in the cot's bolster, he had emerged only to sit hunched over a chamber pot and give way to nausea.
Though there were two more storms after the first tempest, Julian had retained a firm grip on his stomach, but fear had not disappeared. He recalled the numerous ships he'd watched sail proudly out of Virginia harbors. Months later their mysterious loss at sea and the disastrous consequences to the merchants who'd underwritten their voyage would be discussed at the noonday meal. No one believed in sea dragons anymore—or those monsters of the deep that might surround a vessel and smash it to bits or breathe fire on its hull, consigning it to a watery grave. Yet everyone had a genuine respect for the havoc Atlantic storms could wreak. At the end of his crossing Julian considered that if he hadn't emerged a victor in his contest with the sea, he had at least held his own.
And the precious parcel had remained unscathed. In his misery Julian had seen it lean and fall precariously from one wall to another; the cabin area was too small for it to smash to the floor. But the Jamestown shipper had done his job well. The thick linen folds
that gave the parcel the appearance of a mummy had held strong, and he knew the contents were unharmed.
Once on land, with predictably unsteady legs, he'd wisely made for the nearest inn which the ship's captain had recommended as comfortable, safe and "wi' fine victuals." Refreshed by a good night's sleep and an ample breakfast, he'd arranged for the hire of a litter to carry his boxes and the portrait, as well as a guide to direct him to London. And now, as he emerged from the steamily pungent stables where horses pawed and stamped in the cool morning air, the parcel and boxes were stowed in the litter, and by seven o'clock he was London-bound.
The little group turned northwest, the horses settled down to a rhythmically steady plodding, and Julian had his first opportunity to absorb the beauty of the English countryside so much more green and lush than Virginia. The roads were deeply rutted, muddy and unusually wide. There were tidy fields on each side, some enclosed by hedges and dotted with sheep. Old gnarled trees of elm and oak stood in green parks, and in the distance a forest range stretched for miles. Julian was unaccustomed to such vistas; cleared land in Virginia did not extend for miles! He marveled also at the age of the byres and red-tiled cart sheds—an ancient mill, crumbling and decaying, still turned its wheel and millstones as it had, he was sure, for hundreds of years.
At one point, astonished, he stopped to ask the guide the name of a vast building silhouetted against the horizon. Canterbury Cathedral, the guide replied, the home of old Thomas a Becket, he who'd been done in by the king's men hundreds of years before. Julian recalled the story from his childhood books; Thomas' murder had always brought tears to his eyes. He felt that old sadness now as he shaded his eyes, straining to see more of the tremendous pile before it disappeared from view. A little farther on, he remembered his Chaucer when, remarking on the many travelers walking in the opposite direction, the guide replied they were now on the "Pilgrim's Way."
Privately, Julian marveled at his own good fortune. Who would have thought, eighteen months ago, that he'd be in this beautiful land? Who would have believed after his appalling family tragedy that fate would send him to the home of that kindly man in Francis Street? Who would have guessed that the same man would tell him of a magical place—could it be very far from where they were?—
where he had grown to manhood near a palace, the very name of which seemed as familiar as his own?
And who would have believed that the chance encounter with James Cuddington could result in his discovering the only person who seemed to have a direct and special appeal to him alone? That it was all so implausible did not, for one moment, lessen its importance. Every feature of Chloe Cuddington's face and every line and curve of her body were dear to him. He could imagine how that silvery nimbus of hair would feel under his fingers, how the line of that strong clefted chin might touch his heart if it were lifted to his own, how the curve of breast or hip might feel under his hand. Chloe Cuddington might be, as he repeatedly told himself, only a face and form on canvas, but she was endearingly real and more richly his than he suspected any contemporary ever would be.
Straight ahead, Julian could see a small village. Herons and kingfishers fed in a willow-bordered stream; even the clattering of the horses' hooves on the rough bridge did not disturb them. An ancient church with a square Norman tower brooded protectively over the village center. As the little group rode past, a monk—book in hand—came out the side door and Julian felt the familiar stirring he'd not experienced for years. He remembered his fascination with the tiny figures walking cloistered paths in his childhood books. The monk did not notice them. Quickly he turned a corner of the church, his coarse brown woolen habit swelling out as the breeze caught it, and disappeared.
The horses picked up speed on the wide dry ro
ad out of the village, and Julian continued his reverie. How, he thought, would he have appealed to the bewitching Chloe? He had no lofty illusions of his own appearance. He was a slight young man with sandy hair and a normally fair skin tanned and toughened by the sea wind and sun. He had his mother's eyes: startingly blue, clear and alert, and heavily rimmed with dark lashes that had guaranteed many a childhood teasing. The straight, proud nose of all the Cushings—a direct gift from old Amos himself—was above lips that smiled easily or could, just as quickly, compress into a thin, angry or contemptuous line. This mercurial change of expression—sober one moment and humorous the next—often puzzled those meeting the Cushing men for the first time. "He's a changeling, that'un, a blessed changeling," his old nurse, Tabby, had said fondly when he was less than a year
old. In all the years of his growing up, she'd never changed her mind.
Julian smiled to himself, recalling old Tab on the morning he'd last seen her. All the Cushing servants, house and field, had been taken by neighbors after the fire. Even in the midst of his sorrow, Julian had argued and finally persuaded a tearful Tab she'd be better off in the home of his mother's dearest friend than accompanying him to Williamsburg. Especially since he didn't know how he was to provide for himself, much less an old black woman who was as dear to him as any family member. When, before his departure, his lawyer had sent a steward with the rent payments from his Jamestown fields, old Tab had bullied the man into letting her ride a mule behind him so she might see her former charge before he departed for the other side of the world and out of her life. They'd had a mutually tearful farewell while Julian had sought to console the thin, shabby old woman. Hoping to cheer her, he'd promised to be back in six months and to bring her a shawl—a shawl such as she'd never seen. He'd been gratified by her wide disarming smile. A flash of old Tab's spirit was clear in her glistening eyes as she said, "And, Master Julie, you make it a bright green taffety one!" Julian had laughed, hugged her skinny frame and promised she'd have the brightest green taffety shawl he could find.
So engrossed had he become in his reminiscences, Julian hadn't noticed the large and impressive homes coming into view. The country had been left behind, and the road had become a broad avenue. They were approaching Southwark, the guide shouted, and Julian knew London Bridge must be straight ahead. Shifting excitedly in his saddle, he joined his companion, who explained they would cross at the horse ferry landing near Lambeth Palace because the bridge would be crowded at that hour. Hoping to hide his disappointment, Julian returned to his place behind the litter horses.
Directly they were out of the mainstream of traffic, riding through the busy little village of Walworth, past Newington Butts and toward Lambeth's marshy fields. Following the guide's pointing finger, Julian could see Lambeth Palace, home of the Archbishops of Canterbury, straight ahead. It was the largest building he'd ever seen. On his journey to London, Julian had realized more than once that life in the New World had not prepared him for his first vision of the Old. Why, the palace gardens that stretched as far
as he could see were almost the length of Williamsburg's main street! Acre upon acre of fruit orchards bordered a vast shrubbery maze, while trees of incredible height flung their branches together making a sun-dappled vault below. Shrubs, flowers and herbs bordered neat paths or, in some instances, rioted along walkways. And, over all, the great palace's bells pealed across the marsh, flowing over the small cemetery where crosses and carved statuary reared in eternal remembrance atop turf so vividly green it challenged the senses.
Lambeth Palace had hidden any view of what was beyond, and it wasn't until the guide passed the end of the courtyard wall that Julian could see the Thames. And there, suddenly, spread as far as the eye could see, was the London of the Plantagenets, the Tudors and the Stuarts. Although, he was quick to remember, Mr. Pepys had written that much of it had been destroyed in that ghastly fire some thirty-four years ago. The great red structure of Lambeth he'd thought so grand was now seen in perspective; it was dwarfed by the glorious Abbey almost directly opposite. Nearer the shore was the crumbling splendor of what had once been Westminster Palace; grass more than a foot high grew in the ruins. Churches, many rebuilt since the Great Fire, thrust their spires heavenward, and farther to the northwest, Julian could see scaffolding around the immense building he recognized as St. Paul's.
Once aboard the tiny ferry, Julian kept a careful eye on the litter. Safely on the other side, he followed in the steward's wake and was pleased to see they would pass near the great Abbey. He gazed at the awesome structure now nearly six hundred years old. The afternoon sun touched each brilliant window with pink and rose and lingered in the intricate tracery carvings. Nearby were lush fruit orchards; many of the apple trees were a riot of pink, white and rose, and in an adjacent garden the Abbey monks toiled with barrow and hoe.
Ahead was Palace Yard, once the entry to proud Westminster Palace. How magnificent it must have been! And what great personages had lived there! Henry VIII, Henry VII and Edward rV. Wasn't it right here in this vicinity that Edward's queen, the lovely Elizabeth Woodville, had taken sanctuary when she felt her life and family imperiled? Immediately his thoughts of the past were swept away by the swarms of people and animals who thronged in the Yard. Merchants who'd traded in the Abbey's shadow and
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among the palace ruins now packed their produce away by the fading light, while pie sellers and orange girls cried their wares, hoping not to have to carry them home. The Antelope, a grayish-green building tucked against the side of vast Westminster Hall, made Julian realize how hungry and thirsty he was. Yet the guide gave no indication of stopping but picked his way expertly through the teeming crowd glancing back often to see that Julian and the litter horses were following.
"Not far now, young sir!" he called back. " 'Tis Cuddington House in the Strand you be wanting? 'Tis straight ahead. We'll go through the gates and past Charing, and you'll be there. That's the palace to the right and the pennants up. That means the king is in his par-lorhouse, counting all his money." He grinned at Julian, who laughed and nodded his head. He was too busy trying to see everything to reply. The Whitehall gardens were resplendent in spring dress-green circles, squares, oblongs and the "knots" he recognized from his mother's gardens. The King's Beasts—large painted statues of animals—reared like multicolored chess pieces on striking green cloth. A fountain suddenly spouted water, giving a group of unwary strollers an unexpected shower, and Julian was amused at the shrieking as they fled the spot, shaking their damp clothing.
People were everywhere—in the gardens, the roadway and emerging from the buildings which lined the thoroughfare. A whole procession of horsemen in half armor were riding swiftly toward the Tiltyard straight ahead. They were clad in clothes the like of which he'd never seen before—the men as colorful as the ladies. Brilliant satins and delicate laces were adorned with ribbons and jewels. The ladies carried ornate fans or parasols; the men, gleaming, tapering swords. One dress, the exact shade of peach in which Miss Chloe Cuddington had posed, made Julian wonder: had she, too, walked these paths as a favored companion of old Elizabeth? Had she stood at that wall where espaliered blossoms dotted the gnarled old bark and watched the swift barges on the Thames? Had she passed, as they were now, under the sturdily beautiful black and white gate he knew to have been designed by the renowned Holbein? Certainly she must have, and not only that, she also must have known Holbein. . . .
At the end of the broad thoroughfare the guide pointed ahead. They were curving eastward again, following that bend in the river
Mary Luke hi
where St. Paul's could be seen in the distance; Julian could even make out the tiny figures moving on the dome scaffolding.
"Tis Durham House, there by the river edge," the guide called back, "and opposite is Cuddington House."
It was Durham House all right. Julian recognized the stone and the uniquely shaped red-tile roof from Chloe's portrait. And oppo
site Durham House was the exact representation of the little picture within the portrait which had so intrigued his fancy. Julian was so excited at seeing Cuddington House at last that he rode ahead, past his guide, oblivious to those in the roadway who darted from his path and called after him, shaking their heads at his impet-uousness. Here, too, the sun had touched the faded old stone with pale pink, and it gleamed along the windows through which he could see the familiar green hangings. Here it was, the home of Miss Chloe Cuddington, its handsome balustraded steps with the family crest in black, gold and red all fresh and new, just as James Cuddington had told him. Old Durham House looked older and badly in need of repair. Farther along the Strand Julian was shocked at the condition of the great river houses. Old Cuddington had told him of their splendor—of the vast lawns, terraces, galleries, pools, orchards and stairs of houses that had sheltered Essex, Raleigh, Cecil and Richard III. Now many lacked roofs, others were being torn down, and people rummaged in the foundations for stone.
"Be you expected?" The guide's question broke into Julian's musings, and then, not waiting for an answer, he pointed to the front door. "You go in there, young sir. I'll take the horses around to the courtyard in the back."
"Be you expected?" The words lingered in Julian's mind as he crossed the Strand to mount the handsome stone steps. His legs were stiff, his back ached from the unaccustomed long ride, and he was tired, thirsty and hungry. Yet he'd never been happier in his life. Was he expected? He didn't know, nor did he care. He carried letters from James Cuddington, who also, he remembered, had sent word to his London agent of Julian's departure long before he'd actually boarded the Sovereign. Yes, he was expected. Quickly, he bounded up the steps and rang the bell beside the massive double doorway. For the first time in months—ever since the devastating loss of his home and parents—Julian felt anticipation, joy and a strange, yet comforting feeling that he had come home.