The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  The bedroom into which the old servant ushered him was larger than any he'd ever seen in a private home. "This is where Mr. James lived when he was at Cuddington House, sir. I remember him well as a boy. My great-grandfather was stableman to old Mr. Richard, Mr. James' great-grandfather—he was the Tudor painter, sir. Mr. James and I were of an age, and we had many happy times in the stable when we were young ones."

  "I will tell Mr. Cuddington when I return," Julian replied. "May I have your name so he will remember?"

  "Evans, sir . . . just Evans. He'll remember." The old man chuckled to himself as he removed a cloak from Julian's portmanteau and set to brushing it vigorously. "Many's the time we had out there in back, sir. My grandfather was a bit of a Tatar, sir, if you know what I mean. Very strict and firm, he was, but young Mr. James . . . Well, now, he was a bit of a mischief, and my grandfather excused all sorts of nonsense in him that I'd have been tanned for."

  It was difficult to think of James Cuddington as a "bit of a mischief," probably the bane of an old stableman's existence. But it was not difficult to place him in this house. Julian gazed appreciatively at the splendor of the room and the richness of its furnishings. A huge canopied bed occupied one wall, its mulberry hangings festooned with silver trim, and a chair of similar color and decoration was near the mullioned window. Julian sank into it to watch the deepening dusk on the Strand. Wagons, carts, horsemen and solitary men and women hurried in each direction; on the river every boat was occupied. To his left he could see London Bridge, its stately span bordered in lights from the buildings lining the great arch; several pedestrians had also lit torches as they crossed in the twilight.

  ". . . and no one ever knew it but me, but the reason young Mr. James always insisted on this room was because of Miss Chloe. It was where she used to stay."

  The words brought Julian to his feet. "Chloe Cuddington stayed in this room, Evans?" The old man nodded, absorbed in his unpacking. "What else did your young friend James know about her?"

  "Oh, now, he—he didn't know anything about her, sir, except what we all did. But he was much smitten, if you'll pardon my saying so, with her looks. That's when her portrait was hanging downstairs in the Hall, sir, over the fireplace it was. I can remember see-

  ing it there as a boy. I understand he has sent it back to us"—the old man allowed himself a moment's reflection—"and it'll be nice to see it again, sir. It was there in the Hall for as long as I can remember. My grandfather could remember the time it was painted, and he said Miss Chloe was even prettier than young Penn made her."

  "Your grandfather knew the girl in the portrait—actually knew her?" Julian could barely contain his excitement. Here was something he hadn't expected—a living link with Chloe Cuddington!

  "Oh, my, yes, my grandfather knew all the Cuddingtons, sir. Our family has been in their service for generations. Some of the Evanses were living at the family seat in Surrey when the land was taken away."

  "And what else did your grandfather tell you about Chloe Cuddington—forgive me, Evans, but I've heard about her from your friend James, and I'm curious about the young lady myself 1"

  Evans laughed. "I think everyone used to be curious about her, sir. The portrait was quite famous in its time, and she was also a great favorite of Queen Elizabeth. My grandfather knew her, too— she used to live in the house across the Strand before she was queen, and he said she rode a horse like a man. Always had an eye for a great horse, he said." Evans joined Julian at the window, adjusting the hanging, and they both gazed a moment at old Durham House, whose stables, even now, abutted on the Strand. "My grandfather always said he thought that nonsense about Miss Chloe being a witch was poppycock—pure poppycock—that the little girl just had a gift of seeing into the future, and there was nothing bewitched about it, that she was just using the senses the good God gave her." He twitched angrily at a hanging. "Don't you believe anyone ever says she was a witch, sir. My grandfather—and my father, too, who heard even more stories than I can remember—said it was Dr. Dee who was more to blame than Miss Chloe. Old Dee was a fair rascal, he was—even hoodwinked the old queen, if you could believe all you heard, sir."

  Julian was bewildered. Old Evans' mind seemed to dart from the past to the present. It all seemed like one time to him. "I look forward to seeing the picture again, sir," he told Julian, "and now if you'll excuse me, I'll tell Miss Rosa you're here." Giving the hanging a final twitch, he shuffled from the room, leaving Julian gazing thoughtfully at the river below.

  Half an hour later Evans ushered a freshly shaved and attired Julian into the large room off the Hall. "Miss Rosa will be with you in a moment, Mr. Cushing. Pray be seated there by the fire, sir." The old man bowed his way from the room. Julian thanked him, hoping his hostess would not be too prompt. He was now in the very room where Chloe Cuddington had posed, and it looked as rf she had only stepped out for a moment.

  Originally, he suspected, the ground floor of Cuddington House had been one Great Hall. Now there were two or three rooms, each of good size, but this particular area had been left as it was in the portrait. The fireplace, faced with Sienese marble, was the same and so was the vivid Oriental carpet. The window hangings, if not the original, had been duplicated in the same color. Somewhere— somewhere—there had to be a chair. He looked around, and there, in a corner near the window that showed the edge of Durham House, he found it. It was larger than he'd expected—the artist undoubtedly had painted it smaller so as not to overwhelm the sitter. It was deeply carved, and its gilt paint had recently been renewed. Julian took up a stance about where the artist would have placed his easel and felt a shiver go through him. It was uncanny. It was the room of the portrait—all that was missing was the glowing beauty sitting in the chair and the portrait of the outside of Cuddington House over the fireplace. That, old James Cuddington had told him, had been a figment of the artist's imagination. The space above the fireplace was empty, for it was where the completed portrait of Chloe had been hung until James had taken it across the sea more than fifty years before.

  "Mr. Cushing, forgive me for keeping you waiting! You are most welcome, sir! My uncle has written about you!"

  Julian turned, bowing deeply and was impressed by the graceful curtsy performed by Rosa Cuddington. "Madam, you are most kind to receive me," he murmured as he helped her to her feet.

  Rosa Cuddington bore no resemblance to her uncle James. She was a tiny woman, past the first flush of youth, yet still nicely rounded and curved. The low, square neckline of her dress thrust her breasts upward in a fashion which had not as yet reached Virginia. There was paint on her lips, Julian was certain, and the small black mark on her chin was surely not real. The light-brown hair, curled and piled high, was her own and adorned with ribbons the same blue as the dress that billowed out in front like a small ship

  under sail. Her smile was quick and bright, and her eyes—gray as his Chloe's, but smaller and differently shaped—were land. Instantly Julian was at ease and found he liked this Cuddington woman. She was not a descendant of his Chloe, but she fitted into the family history somewhere, and it would be rewarding in the days ahead to find out where.

  The door opened, and another servant, younger and stronger than Evans, entered with the wrapped portrait. Julian felt a warm excitement and anticipation; soon he'd see that beloved face again. His voice trembled when he spoke. "Ah, this is it, madam. This is the gift your uncle has honored me by asking that I return it to the family. It is a portrait of an ancestress of yours, I believe. It is very lovely."

  The servant carefully cut the wrappings. "Save them, Temple," Rosa Cuddington advised. She turned, smiling, to Julian. "That is fine quality for the Colonies, Mr. Cushing. Uncle James had written he was having his treasure properly prepared for its journey. I've never seen the fabled Chloe Cuddington, for the portrait was gone before I was born. Pray be seated, sir. I expect you're anxious to see if it has survived the voyage well."

  The question remained unanswered,
for the wrappings had fallen, and the servant turned it in the direction of his mistress. Julian heard her quick intake of breath. "Ah! How beautiful—how beautiful!"

  He himself was gratified. If anything, it looked even more remarkable here in its home surroundings than it had in Virginia. The color seemed brighter and fresher—he suspected it was because of the similar light in which it had been painted. As the servant turned the frame slightly one way and another, Chloe gazed with eternal grace on the scene she had known so well. "Ah, yes, it is very beautiful." Rosa went to examine it more closely. "It is everything I had expected and—something more." She smiled with secret amusement. "Hang it over the fireplace, Temple; that's where it belongs."

  Climbing onto a small stool, the servant hoisted the heavy frame easily and hung it in its original setting. He stepped back, to judge if it hung properly, and his expression, deferential and aloof, changed to one of astonishment. His mistress joined him, and the two continued to gaze at the portrait. "Beautiful," she murmured again. "An amazing likeness, eh, Temple? Amazing." Seemingly, the two had forgotten Julian.

  "Likeness, madam?" He joined them at the fireplace. "It is beautiful, is it not? You mention likeness—a likeness of whom, pray?"

  Instantly, his hostess' face, under its delicate paint, was suffused with pink. She hesitated a moment and then, laughing lightly, whipped a fan from her billowing skirt and fanned herself rapidly. "Why, it's a likeness of—of—of Miss Chloe Cuddington, sir!" She laughed again, and Temple joined her. They seemingly shared a secret, and Julian felt annoyed. Obviously, it was a likeness of Miss Chloe Cuddington. Did they think their visitor from the Colonies was daft?

  During the next half hour, as Julian talked of his journey, old Evans brought a tray with refreshments. After placing it in front of his mistress, he stopped at the fireplace and gazed for several moments at the portrait. Julian noticed the old man's eyes were glistening. Then, with a heavy sigh, he silently left the room.

  Rosa Cuddington served tea—a new drink, she told Julian, that was enjoying a great vogue. He liked the hot brew and ate several of the tiny seedcakes she pressed on him. He remembered the many hours he'd spent with James Cuddington, drinking wine and munching biscuits, gazing at the glorious portrait which at last hung in its rightful place. As he murmured polite replies to Rosa's gracious inquiries, his gaze often met Chloe's and for the first time he felt sadness. She has come home, he thought. I've done as I was asked, but now I've lost her. The more he dwelled on it, the more depressed he felt. Once he returned to Virginia, she would be gone from his life forever.

  Rosa was watching him closely. "And you, sir," she said, "you seem much taken with the infamous Chloe, as I have heard her called. She was quite a charmer in her day, y'know, and, some say, something of a witch." She stared at the picture. "Although I must say, I don't think she looks like a witch, d'you?"

  "No, I don't think she was a witch. But pray, madam, tell me about her. I've heard bits and pieces of her story, but not the whole." Julian didn't want to appear too eager. Rosa Cuddington was, he could see, a very perceptive woman; he didn't want his feelings to be apparent. How silly she'd think him to have fallen in love with a girl in a picture!

  "Well, she was the daughter, you know, of Sir Richard Cuddington, who was lord of the manor of Cuddington village in Surrey. There was a great deal of land—thousands of acres. Pity we don't

  have some of it today! There was a manor house and proper village and several tenant farms, of course. But the king took it all."

  "Henry the Eighth," Julian volunteered. "James Cuddington told me about that."

  "Of course, it was nearer his time than mine," Rosa replied, setting down her teacup. "I may not have all the facts properly, Mr. Cushing, but as I understand it, the king took all the Cuddington land, including a church and priory, which he later destroyed in order to build Nonsuch Palace—have you heard of Nonsuch, sir?"

  "Oh yes I" Julian's enthusiasm mounted. "I've seen pictures and sketches of it, Miss Cuddington. It was very beautiful."

  "It may have been beautiful, but obviously the Cuddingtons of that time had little enthusiasm for it—which I am sure you can understand. Oh, they were polite enough about it—what else could they do? The king gave them land and a manor house of equal importance and value in Suffolk, and materially, they suffered no hardship—but that, of course, did not compensate for their emotional distress, particularly Chloe Cuddington's."

  "Why particularly Chloe Cuddington's'?"

  "Chloe was Sir Richard's only child—his heiress—and since his holdings were vast, she would have been very rich. But aside from the value of the lands for which, supposedly, the property in Suffolk was compensation, she had a great pride in her Surrey heritage. Cuddingtons had been on that land for more than five hundred years. Chloe loved the outdoors. She could ride like the wind, took a great interest in the running of the farms and was a proper scholar at a time when most women in her position stuck to their needlework and childbearing."

  Rosa Cuddington poured Julian another cup of tea and continued. "The family story goes that when the king announced he'd take the land, Chloe Cuddington was outraged. She wanted no part of Suffolk—Surrey was her home. She was so angry and hurt she wrangled the king's commissioners into letting one house, Spar-wefeld, an old gardener's cottage, be saved. She was to have life tenancy, after which it would revert to the crown. And it was at Sparwefeld that she seems to have fallen into all that trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?" Julian's heart was racing. He realized once more just how little he really knew of his beloved. Rosa Cuddington's words only stimulated his interest.

  "I'm afraid it all gets rather murky, here, Mr. Cushing." Rosa

  laughed—a pleasant, tinkling sound. "One never knows how much is rumor or fact. I don't know myself what to believe. However, there is a family legend that Chloe Cuddington was connected with something called the Lure—no, don't ask me what it was because I don't know. Neither does anyone else. The only other people who knew were Dr. Dee, who was a famous astrologer during the time of Elizabeth, and a monk whose name was Thomas. He lived at Merton Priory near the village of Cuddington."

  "A monk named Thomas," Julian pondered, repeating the words and then looking at the portrait. "What on earth would Chloe Cuddington have had to do with a monk?"

  "That's one of the mysteries I wish I could explain." Rosa sighed, taking Julian's cup and pushing the tea tray toward Temple, who had come into the room. "I dearly wish I knew. As a child, we used to play games—to try to figure it all out."

  "What else is known of the Lure?"

  "The Lure was something that was buried at Nonsuch Palace—it would have had to been buried before the palace was completely built, because the tragedy took place just before Chloe Cuddington was twenty-one."

  "Tragedy? What tragedy? Was this when she was accused of being a witch?"

  "I believe so. The girl seems to have had some unusual knowledge of things that were going to happen. Somehow she knew the Lure was buried in the foundations of Nonsuch Palace. The knowledge was shared by a minor servant at the Cuddington manor house who had, on several occasions, accosted the girl and put her in what I think was a most compromising situation, if you know what I mean. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and Julian was amused to see the pink flood her features again. He said nothing, not wishing to heighten her embarrassment. At the same time he wondered how his Chloe had dealt with the "compromising situation."

  "Well, sir, eventually, the monk Thomas and this servant had quite a falling-out. Probably over the girl. She and Thomas had an odd relationship, never one properly explained to me, because there was no explanation for it. The two were close—too close for a young girl and a monk to be, if you'll pardon my saying so, Mr. Cushing. And that didn't help her reputation either, I'm afraid. The family moved soon after to Suffolk, and it was about that time that various things came out about her—Chloe, I mean. Witnesses spoke of

  things she'd p
redicted coming true and of things she'd described as of the future. Again and again she was asked about the Lure and always refused to answer. And of course, people figured the Lure was a curse of some sort that only a witch would know about. Shortly afterwards she married Bartholomew Penn and came here to stay with James Cuddington—your friend James' great-grandfather. They seemed to have been very happy. They moved in court circles, and she was a great favorite of Queen Elizabeth. Penn was almost as famous as Holbein. When city and court life palled, they went to the little house she got from the king's commissioners—the little place called Sparwefeld."

  "Your uncle James in Williamsburg has told me about Sparwefeld, Miss Cuddington, and that's a fascinating story about your ancestress. After hearing it, I can only say that Chloe Cuddington must have been a most unusual young lady."

  "Just as she has those unusual looks—that's a family tradition too, y'know. That whitish hair and the large dark eyes, that clefted chin —it's a resemblance that surfaces every once in a while. Usually with a first daughter, one who's inevitably named Chloe."

  Julian had gone to gaze more closely at the portrait. The sitter's eyes seemed to bore into his; he could almost feel their warmth and the soft sound of breathing. "Such beauty and grace," he murmured.

  "You are greatly taken with my ancestress!" His hostess smiled and joined him at the fireplace. "Well, I don't blame you. Her reputation has survived for so long, she must have been unusually clever as well as beautiful." Julian noticed Rosa Cuddington regarding him shrewdly. He must not make a fool of himself over the portrait in her presence. What would that kindly soul who had received him so graciously think if she realized he'd fallen in love with a creature dead for over one hundred and fifty years?