The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  He was thankful when the door opened and Evans announced supper was ready. Proffering his arm to his hostess in what he hoped was the proper manner, he accompanied her from the room, noting that the eyes of the girl in the portrait—back in her home after fifty years—seemed to follow their departure.

  Qhapter tyjne

  The following morning before the sun was at its highest, a small cavalcade turned off the London Road into the little medieval town of Ewell. It reminded Julian of the English villages seen in his childhood books. Here was the Market House and Cross, the same black and white timbered houses, with a butcher's stall next to an ironmonger's shop. The King's Head, the village inn, was colorful with window boxes of heartsease and herbs. Ahead the square teemed with animals and people. It was Market Day, and even at a distance the sound of the livestock and the farmers' cries could be heard.

  Rosa Cuddington urged her stableman toward the nearest road away from the village center. Following a small, clear stream shaded by elm trees, the group soon reached a wide bridle road lined with hedges over which Julian could see cherry trees in full blossom. All during the journey south, as each turn in the road revealed England's sylvan splendor, Julian had longed for his sketch pad. Never had he seen anything like the soft rolling hillocks and copses, the sweeping meadows, filled now with buttercups, or the raw beauty of freshly plowed land. The flat country, the tidal marshes and great black forests of Virginia were so different. Time and again Rosa pointed out an especially magnificent view toward the Banstead Downs where the earth's beauty was rivaled by the delicate fleeciness of startling white clouds in an almost azure sky.

  As they left Ewell behind, she pointed out certain features of the land. Arriving at four crossroads, she said, "We think this is about where Cuddington village once stood, Mr. Cushing. We know the

  church was leveled and Nonsuch Palace built on its site, but the manor house and village were some distance away. Local history has placed the village here—we know it was near the crossroads, and several wells belonging to the manor house and its outbuildings have been discovered nearby.''

  "Then we're near Nonsuch!" Julian felt an intense twinge of excitement and anticipation.

  "Indeed we are," his companion replied, swiveling around in her saddle and pointing to a hollow to their left. "Over there is a site even older than Nonsuch. A Ewell man who worked at the palace came this way one evening to visit a sick cow on his farm. It was well past midnight, and he was tired. Coming to just over the hedge there, he sat on a stile to rest. Down in the hollow, he saw a funeral taking place. The people were dressed strangely, at least to the cowman's eyes. As he watched, he remembered the legend that there had once been a church in the dell. He was too frightened to go the rest of the way and returned to the palace. Later someone who heard the story looked up Ewell's history in a book and found there'd been a church in that dell in the time of the Romans."

  Julian was about to remark on the curious tale when Rosa pointed to a large circular grove, heavily wooded and dominated by a great elm—the largest he'd ever seen. Its limbs were broken, and its girth was riddled with a sickness that had left it hollow in spots. Yet its top branches were in full leaf. "That's Queen Elizabeth's Elm," his companion explained. Seeing Julian's skeptical look, she smiled and said, "It really is, Mr. Cushing. There's where the queen used to stand and shoot deer, for this was once open land with forests on all sides. Once Nonsuch was built, much of the land was made into deer parks. Just beyond that is a canal called Diana's Dike—the mythological Diana was a huntress, you know, and there were statues of Diana and Actaeon around here somewhere. Diana's Dike was once a fishpond for the old manor house at Cud-dington which was incorporated into Nonsuch. Local legend has it that the queen had a marble bathhouse built there." She laughed. "I don't know about the bathhouse, but there's no doubt that's where she used to hunt. Fifty years ago there were local men alive who remembered—when they were very young—seeing her ride through Ewell from Nonsuch to take up her position there. That's why the tree has never been cut down."

  As they rode on, Julian blessed the good fortune that would ena-

  ble him to see Nonsuch with such a knowledgeable guide. The previous evening he'd told Rosa of his deep interest in the palace and how he'd once talked with a Mr. Percy, who'd spent a night at Nonsuch.

  "Well, there's still a great deal left, Mr. Gushing," Rosa had replied, "and coming this far, you should see it." His hostess, he'd found, was not only perceptive, but very decisive. No sooner had he mentioned the ruins than she'd made plans for an early departure. During the pleasant ride south she'd told Julian further bits of the palace's history.

  Henry VIII apparently had died shortly after Nonsuch was completed. Edward VI, his young son, had visited there often during the short years of his reign. But when his sister, Mary Tudor, came to the throne, she had no use for it. Mary disliked hunting and considered the palace an extravagant waste. Rosa, however, felt Mary hated Nonsuch because the king had decided to build it when he was married to Anne Boleyn, who'd usurped Mary's mother, Catherine of Aragon, as queen. Mary sold Nonsuch to Henry Fitzalan, the Earl of Arundel, for more than four hundred pounds and the exchange of properties more to her liking.

  Arundel and his heir, John, Lord Lumley, had further embellished the palace, and after Mary's death Queen Elizabeth repurchased it from the aging Lumley. The years of "Gloriana's" reign, said Rosa, were Nonsuch's golden age, for Elizabeth loved the place. She enjoyed hunting and entertaining foreign dignitaries, and the palace and grounds were ideal for both. At her death, in 1603, Nonsuch lost its greatest protector. Her successor, James L used it occasionally for hunting and hawking, and later his son, the martyred Charles I, and his queen—"that monkey-faced Henrietta," Rosa called her—often stayed at Nonsuch. When Charles was beheaded, it was, in effect, the end of Royal Nonsuch, and kings and queens no longer walked its halls and rode in its vast parks. The martyred king's successor, Charles II, had little use for the place. He preferred the London scene, where the court and mistresses who provided for his dissipations were more conveniently at hand. It was one of Charles' mistresses who had provided literally for Nonsuch's downfall. In 1670 the king gave the palace to Barbara Villiers, the notorious Countess Castlemaine and Duchess of Cleveland, by whom he'd had several illegitimate children. Lady Castlemaine needed ready cash to pay her gambling debts, and she pro-

  ceeded to lease or sell hunting, grazing and park rights. As she rarely visited Nonsuch, those who lived or were employed there zealously plundered it during the next few years. Several small buildings were destroyed, and the materials sold; even the soil in the park was for sale. In 1682 demolition started in earnest. Everything—the magnificent carvings, the lead, stone, wooden timbers-was sold. Barbara Villiers was an old woman now, said Rosa, still living somewhere on the Continent. She had never, as far as anyone knew, seen the wanton destruction of the proud towers and turrets for which she was responsible.

  "A sad tale . . ." Julian sighed, depressed at the ease with which a noble palace might vanish forever.

  They rode on in silence until Rosa pointed straight ahead. "And now, Mr. Cushing, we're almost there. Sparwefeld is just at the end of this wall. You can always tell when you're near because of the birds. I think the little house must have got its name from the sparrows 1"

  It was then Julian noticed the great grove of lime trees across the road—trees alive with birds. The flat field had once been farmland, but now sheep nibbled at the grass as birds swooped down, singly and in pairs, to peck in the earth and then disappear into the trees. They sat in great numbers along the red-brick wall which enclosed a courtyard. Gesturing toward them, Rosa laughed. "They've been here forever. They can be a nuisance, too. Ah, here we are!"

  A pleasant scene -greeted the travelers as they rounded the wall's corners. What Rosa had called "the little house" was larger than Julian had expected. Already more than two hundred years old, it had obviously been rebuilt, expanded and m
aintained with loving care. The center portion, probably the original, was square with a steep thatched roof, and at each end, side wings extended at right angles. At the end of one was an old well almost obscured by a clump of white lilacs, while a dovecote, large and populous, stood at the other end. Mature shrubs girdled the building, softening its outline; their flowers were striking against the pale washed stone. The sun, high now, gave each sparkling window a delicate radiance, emphasizing the solid square substance of what had once been a humble cottage.

  Lawns of that vivid green that Julian still felt were unreal were on each side of the long, straight cobbled path where thyme grew between the stones. Huge leafy trees dotted the far border and, to

  the right, hung over another path which led to an arbor; it held something that looked oddly like a sign in the shape of a domino. He was still musing on the unlikely sign when the horses stopped at the entrance. The front door—one massive piece of heavily carved wood studded with nails—swung open, and a servant emerged. Rosa turned to Julian as she removed her riding gloves. "And now, Mr. Cushing . . . welcome to Sparwefeld! It's not grand, as you can see! Not as grand as Sir Richard's old manor house. That was around to the rear. I'll show you the site later on. But we all cherish this little place. It's all we have left in Surrey. Do come inside, sir. You will want some rest and refreshment."

  During the next hour Julian wandered, bemused, through Spar-wefeld's rooms. They were plain, unadorned by the tapestries, mirrors and lush carpets so evident at Cuddington House. There was one large "receiving room," as Rosa called it, and here were heavy Tudor pieces, probably left from the manor house and given to Chloe for her "little house" before her family went to their new home in Suffolk. There was a large table, black with age, similar to one Julian had seen in the governor's house in Jamestown. At one end, shelves carved out of the thick stone walls held books, pottery figures and rows of candlesticks, probably for use at bedtime. Bowls of spring flowers were placed around the room—bright accents against the stark white walls.

  At the opposite end was a magnificent fieldstone fireplace; on each side its walls were almost covered with handsome portraits. Rosa led him to them.

  "These are the portraits by Bartholomew Penn," she said. "We are very proud of them. He was a master himself, as you can see."

  Julian felt a twinge of jealousy as he was confronted by the almost profligate display of talent of the man who'd won Chloe's love and become her husband. Several were outdoor scenes, reminiscent of the rolling meadows they'd passed that morning. Another was of a river, shadowed by stands of giant elm, with sunlight filtering through the leafy branches. "We think Bartholomew painted these so his wife would always have a visual remembrance of her childhood home," explained Rosa. "These were parts of the land upon which Nonsuch was built."

  The remaining portraits were of Elizabethan courtiers or, possibly, friends and neighbors. Rosa didn't know, for the artist hadn't labeled them. "Many were bought by my family over the years as

  they came on the market," she said. "They belonged to families who later sold them for one reason or another. There are still many others we haven't been able to acquire."

  These were the people who'd undoubtedly known Bartholomew and Chloe well. Their faces—wary, friendly, arrogant or merely studious—were supremely executed. And each fold of satin, lace, each sparkle of jewel, ribbon or crest was minutely rendered. Perm had been supremely gifted.

  One portrait, of a boy of twelve or thirteen, was especially interesting; Julian felt himself drawn to it immediately. The child sat in front of the same Sienese marble fireplace in Cuddington House that appeared in Chloe's portrait. A paint box was on the floor, and the small canvas was stretched tautly on his knee. The artist had portrayed the child with an almost startled expression; he appeared to have looked up for a moment from his work. It was innocent and charming; the boy's face was especially appealing with its fair coloring, the long hair sweeping across his brow and resting on the lace collar of his red jacket. Watching him, Rosa explained, "Richard Cuddington, sir. That was your James Cuddington's greatgrandfather. He became a very famous Tudor painter. He was an especial favorite of your Chloe's."

  A servant came to show Julian to his room. After bowing to his hostess, he followed the man up a short flight of stairs, hoping the view from his window might show the famous Nonsuch ruins. As he walked along the short corridor, he was conscious once more of the feeling he'd experienced at Cuddington House—a feeling of joy and anticipation and the unusual certainty that once more he'd come home.

  There were no ruins to be seen from his window—only that lovely arbor. Beyond the walls, myriad birds swooped in great curving arcs toward open fields. To his left was a large flat area and in its middle the outline of what had been a circular path. At one side of the path was a magnificently gnarled old beech and, beneath it, the rotting remains of a bench upon which several birds alighted before returning to their leafy perches. Clumps of lilacs and rhododendrons bordered on an area that seemed to contain a small maze. Julian realized the cleared site was where the old Cuddington

  manor house had probably stood. Then he was not far from Nonsuch.

  The thought made him hurry through his toilette. Quickly, he changed from his riding clothes, donning the comfortable hose, shirt and doublet the servant laid out. He was about to leave when suddenly the high, tinkling laughter of his hostess could be heard down the hall. Others joined her, and in the general rush of conversation which followed, he clearly heard the name "Chloe" several times. Were they discussing the portrait? Seemingly, there were others in the house whom he hadn't met. Somewhere a door slammed, and he heard soft footsteps running down the stairs as someone urged, "Hurry!"—and again the high gust of laughter as another door closed. Julian felt uncomfortable. Somehow the laughter seemed directed at him. Soon came a discreet knock on the door, and the servant announced that his hostess and a simple meal were awaiting him below.

  It was a pleasant affair, with Rosa exerting every effort to make Julian feel at home. "Mr. Cushing, sir, you have been so kind to take such an interest in our family. My Uncle James has written of you with great affection. I hope you'll stay at Sparwefeld—and at Cuddington House, too—as long as you like, and you must feel perfectly free to do whatever you wish. The servants and I will be happy to help whenever we can."

  Julian was touched. As Rosa spoke, his apprehension disappeared. She wore a simple gown of cream-colored muslin; a white fichu demurely hid her decolletage. She had disdained any paint, as well as the black mark on her chin. Her hair, curly but loose, was pulled back from her face with a plain black velvet ribbon. The Rosa at Sparwefeld was very different from the Rosa of Cuddington House in the Strand. Again, Julian was reminded of the simplicity of his colonial heritage. His mother might have changed her dress in the late afternoon from the one she'd worn earlier in the day, but essentially her appearance remained the same. The Old World apparently did things differently. Yet he had to admit its unpredictability added a tone and sparkle that was new and exciting.

  "Madam, you are very land and I thank you for your thoughtful-ness. I am very eager to see everything at Sparwefeld—especially the Nonsuch ruins. Perhaps you would join me?"

  "Ah, Mr. Cushing, I am afraid I must disappoint you. There's much for me to attend to here with the servants, and then I shall have a

  short rest. But you, sir, pray take a horse if you please and ask any stableman to point you in the right direction. But my advice would be for you to walk. It isn't far, and a horse can be a nuisance at the ruins; sometimes they wander off and stumble in the loose foundations. Yes, I think you should walk." She pointed to the window looking out on the circular path. 'That's where the old Cuddington manor house was. Walk past the tree with the bench and around the corner of the wall. Keep straight to the path, and you come to the ruins. Now, sir, there you are—pray be off and have a good visit! I think you will find many things little changed." She smiled again and waved him away.


  Filled with anticipation and feeling foolishly happy and free, Julian did as she suggested. He passed through the pleasant grounds, around the wall and found the circular path. This must be the very route his Chloe had taken dozens of times. She'd been born in a handsome house very near those lilacs and rhododendrons. Had she sat on that rotting bench under the tree where the birds fluttered in protest as he walked beneath? Had she run along this path as a child to greet her parents returning from Market Day in Ewell? Had she ridden that long green field, fearlessly jumping those hedges and leaping across that stream?

  He was at Nonsuch almost before he knew it. A few low-lying heaps of rubble in which a man was loading stone into a cart indicated he must be near. A courtyard with grass growing between the cobbles signified the heap was all that remained of what had once been the stables. A large hedge, thick and unkempt, separated it from the palace. And as Julian stepped through an opening in the dense shrubbery, he had his first view of what remained of Royal Nonsuch after Barbara Villiers had finished with it.

  He had approached it from the southwest, and the remains of one of the great octagonal structures thrust about three feet above-ground; there was still some indication of its magnificent frescoes. The enclosing wall had been dismantled except in spots; inside was a ruinous assortment of broken stone and glass, heaps of rubble, cobblestones and broken brick, some overgrown with grass and mold. Other piles seemed newly disturbed—probably taken by villagers to repair their cottages and farms. In the center of what he knew to be the inner court was a large plinth, and around it the broken remains of cobblestones lay in small dusty fragments. Ahead, several steps down—the site of the archway to the royal apartments