by Mary Luke
"Oh, Chloe, I can't imagine. . . ." The words were weak.
She interrupted. "Don't talk, Julian. Lie flat and rest your head on your clothing. In a few moments I am sure you'll feel better. Perhaps it was an attack of vertigo."
In moments he felt his energy return. He knew from his shipboard experience that despite his slight body, he had a strong constitution. Chloe had had the good sense to steer him into the shade.
She also had the tact now to remain silent as she sat close by, looking out over the ruins, giving him every chance to regain his composure. What a blessed creature she was. . . .
He sat up, testing his balance. "I think I'm all right now. I've never felt that way before—there was some sickness on the ship coming to England, but nothing like this. God, nothing like this."
Chloe was thoughtful. She had either removed her hat or dropped it in the attempt to help him, and the silvery hair lay in soft waves against her brow. She was in profile, and he caught his breath at the clear, sweet beauty of the straight little nose, the strong chin, the almost bold mark of that dark winged brow. Cautiously, he put out a hand and touched the strands of silvery hair that lay along her neck. They were soft and springy, just as he knew they'd be and, somehow, comfortably familiar. That was the word he'd been seeking— familiar. What was it about this girl that was so natural and right it was almost intimate?
She was not uncomfortable at his touch; there was no coy evasion. "You're feeling better, Julian?" And then, not waiting for his answer: "It happened right at the site of the old fountain—I wonder why the fountain?"
He hoisted himself to a sitting position and followed her glance. The solid plinth in the middle of the inner court was what had felt scalding to his touch. He told Chloe of his reaction. "Hmmmmm" was all she replied. "The old fountain—it had brass dragons on the base—one of the villagers told me. He'd seen it, he said."
"Then maybe the dragons tried to catch me." Julian rose and donned his doublet. His strength had returned, and with it a feeling of shame at his weakness. He must make light of it. "Yes, I'm sure the Nonsuch dragons were after me."
Chloe rose, too, brushing the grass from her skirt. She put on her hat and tied the ribbons under her chin carefully, smiling at him almost maternally. "No, Julian, it wasn't the dragons. It's part of the same sort of thing I feel at the Banqueting House and at the fishpond, although your feeling was far more intense. I don't like to be there, and certainly not alone. Sometimes, I think it's the Lure."
"Your Aunt Rosa told me about the Lure—that it's supposed to be buried somewhere here at Nonsuch."
"Yes, it's been a family legend since the time of the first Chloe Cuddington. Then lots of other people knew about it because there was such a scandal. Some thought she was a witch."
Julian told her about Evans' remarks about the original Chloe. She smiled. "Yes, I know-he's told me the same thing. Perhaps it's true. Perhaps she had second sight. But whatever it was, no one ever knew about it until the scandal of the Lure."
"What do you think the Lure is—or was?"
"I don't know, and sometimes I don't want to find out. Other times I come here and almost will myself to find it-so the mystery of the first Chloe will be solved. I'm supposed to look like her, but I don't want to be like her. She had a great taint to her name."
Julian felt almost compelled to protect the image of the long-dead enchantress whose likeness he'd worshiped for months. Yet he could understand Chloe's dilemma. It couldn't be pleasant knowing you were the duplicate of someone who might have been a witch. Especially if you were as sensitive as he knew Chloe to be.
"Has anyone ever tried to find the Lure?" Julian thought of the days ahead—he and Chloe could look for it themselves! "Certainly if those who destroyed Nonsuch never found it, then it must still be here?"
"Oh, yes, the Lure is still here, Julian." Chloe was very positive. "I know it's still here. There's never been any record of its discovery. Supposedly it was buried before the palace was built, and as you see, there are no excavations. There were some cellars near the kitchens, of course, and the old wine cellar, and they were merely filled in with rubble. Other than that, nothing beneath the ground was disturbed when the palace was pulled down."
They were nearing the wine cellar, and Julian, with Chloe's easel under his arm, stopped before it. "I'd like to dig in there sometime," he said. "I don't know why, but it's as good a place as any to begin. Why don't we come here tomorrow and look underneath that rubble? We might be lucky enough to find the Lure right away."
"Julian, people have scrabbled in that debris for years!" Chloe laughed. "I doubt if it could be that easy." Seeing his disappointment, she said quickly, "But if you want to—of course-you can dig and I will paint!" Then, more soberly: "But there is something you must promise me, Julian. Promise me you'll never go near that old fountain again. Just as the Banqueting House is wrong for me, that ground near the fountain is wrong for you. Others walk there and never seem to feel anything. But I know one thing— you must stay away. It may have been pure accident, but it's a feeling I
understand. Promise me you won't go there again, Julian." The bright face was questioning, her tone urgent. Julian was touched by her concern.
"I promise, Chloe. I won't go there again. But you mustn't worry. Royal Nonsuch may have a few secret dragons, but we know where they are—and we'll stay away." As they started up the treelined avenue toward Sparwefeld, he looked back at the long rectangular mound of the wine cellar. "But there's where I'd like to look someday—someday soon. . . ."
Qhapter ^Jen
Chloe and Julian returned to Nonsuch twice. Chloe painted while Julian attempted to remove several barrows of rubble from the wine cellar. He soon realized how futile it was. The task seemed endless. A great deal of time and effort would be needed merely to clear the area, and then there would be the foundations themselves to be broken into. Nevertheless, as he worked, the more convinced he became that the Lure was underfoot. Rosa and Chloe, however, believed it had been buried in the church foundations where the possibility of discovery would be remote. And these were under the fountain site where he'd suffered that incredible reaction.
It was all very frustrating. Ever since hearing of the Lure, he'd been convinced that finding it might clear the original Chloe's reputation as a witch. And he felt committed—almost impelled—to help redeem her name, though so many years had passed. Even Rosa's dry comment that the Lure might establish once and for all that Chloe had been a witch didn't deter him. He'd fallen in love with her portrait and crossed a sea to bring it home. But until the mystery of the Lure was resolved, Julian did not feel his mission would be complete.
Finding the Lure would also ease the mind and heart of Chloe's namesake, for Julian sensed her doubt about whether her ancestress possessed a "taint" or not. As he dug, he marveled at the kind fate which had given him a replica of his beloved to adore, even though he hadn't dared speak of his feelings. What had he to offer Chloe Cuddington? A loving heart, but no permanent home. A timeless adoration, but no concrete means of support. He was willing to
work, and he knew there were many opportunities in the New World that were lacking in the Old. But had he the right to ask this sheltered girl of such noble heritage to gamble her future with him? Julian remembered the heartbreaking reversals in his own family's fortunes, as well as the very real physical danger of life in Virginia. How could he ask someone as sensitive and lovely as Chloe to share such a life?
It was a relief to communicate something of his feelings to James Cuddington. The old gentleman had written Julian his appreciation at seeing the portrait safely home and, with gentle humor, said how much he envied him seeing "our enchantress in the flesh." Months before, he wrote, Rosa had written that older family members who remembered the portrait said that her niece greatly resembled the original Chloe. He hoped his friend, young Cushing, would enjoy the family and remember him while exploring the scenes he'd known so well as a youth.
&
nbsp; Julian could sense the old man's loneliness and felt a momentary sadness that James could not be with them. He took great pains in his replies to describe the ruins and the places in Ewell that James might remember. He wrote of Chloe, Rosa and Evans, the rooms at Cuddington House and Sparwefeld and his delight in the glory of an English spring. It was one way he could repay the old gentleman whose friendship had so changed his life.
It was obvious to Rosa Cuddington that Julian had fallen in love with her niece. He scarcely took his eyes from her, as though he still couldn't believe his good fortune; he seemed restless when she was absent. Which wasn't often, for Chloe was also clearly taken with Julian. She was seventeen and of an age to be married—as her aunt had pointedly mentioned more than once. Chloe hadn't lacked for beaux. Cuddington House had long been a magnet for the young London gallants. They came in their satins, laces and scents, with their affected manners and extravagant speech, to run the gauntlet of Rosa's cool appraisal. Chloe was not only beautiful but also her aunt's heiress, and Rosa had no use for fortune hunters, no matter how distinguished. Being unwed at seventeen might have alarmed another less assured. But Chloe vowed she'd have no marriage of convenience. She had guarded her emotions skillfully. She was adept at handling an overenthusiastic admirer with politeness— and disdain—and was rigid in her determination to maintain her individuality and freedom. Which, to Rosa's eyes, made her interest
in Julian and her eagerness to be with him remarkable. For all the bluebloods she'd known since birth, none had touched her heart or roused her senses. Until Julian.
It was all very frustrating for Rosa. A matchmaker at heart, she optimistically regarded Julian's adoration and Chloe's shy, awakening interest, hoping for the spark to ignite the relationship. She gave them more opportunity to be alone than propriety allowed— and still their diffidence with each other continued. She guessed Julian's difficulty. He was penniless. She knew that while this was important to him, it mattered little to her niece. Couldn't the girl see he was afire with love for her? And couldn't he see how Chloe's eyes followed him as they cantered in the leafy lanes of Spar-wefeld, or how they sparkled with delight when he commended one of her paintings? As his visit wore on, Rosa despaired that Chloe would ever encourage him to declare himself and he'd return to Virginia with his love unspoken.
The thought of Julian's leaving so depressed Rosa that when, two weeks after his arrival, he and Chloe returned tired and thirsty from a day at Nonsuch, she decided to leave for London the following morning. Perhaps away from the ruins and comparative simplicity of Sparwefeld, something might happen to make them realize how right they were for each other. It was worth a gamble.
Slowly, luxuriating in the soft thick pallet of the great canopied bed, Chloe awoke. She relished the warmth of the room where an early-morning darkness would soon be dispelled by the daylight outlining the edges of the thick draperies. They were closed against the river's damp. The occupants of Cuddington House must be still asleep, for there were no sounds except the muffled calls of the stableman in the rear courtyard and the clatter of a few early horsemen in the Strand below.
Chloe arose, pulling on her robe and thrusting her feet into small velvet sandals. She padded to the window and pushed the draperies aside. It was grayish dark; the lightening rays of the still-hidden sun cast a pinkish glow in the horizon over Southwark and Lambeth Palace upstream. Someone had built a fire in the Durham House courtyard for warmth during the night. It was being doused now, and she could hear the hissing steam and the shout of the stableman as he called for more water. A few wherries were abroad
on the river, while an occasional light could be seen in the houses lining London Bridge. Aside from that, London slept, as did Cud-dington House. It could be no later than half after four. Within an hour, Chloe knew, the city would come to life, and her maid would be knocking softly at her door with a can of hot water for her toilette.
She returned to bed, picking up a small book on her way. Her writing box was on the night table, and sinking once more into the warmth of the covers, she lit a candle and opened the book with its delicately embroidered cover. Dipping her quill into the ink, she wrote:
"May 4, ijoo: It is now nearly three weeks since Julian arrived and I think I love him more each Day. Surely God has been good to send him to me who is so Undeserving of such Grace. I think I knew the first day at Nonsuch that I would love him, for I felt so at Ease—almost as if he were a very Old and dear Friend. Sometimes, I think he feels the same Way, but something keeps him from speaking.
Often I feel his eyes upon me, as if he is trying to Remember something. At times, I feel he's Willing me to remember also! It is most Unusual, but not Frightening, nor does it spoil our time together.
I feel a good deal of his Reserve is because of his great Modesty and because he is very uncertain of his Future."
Putting pen aside, Chloe sank back among the pillows. She knew she'd been a great strain to her beloved Aunt Rosa for discouraging several suitors who might have given her a life of luxury and unquestioned devotion. Even she herself had begun to doubt her motives and wondered if she'd ever be capable of giving her love to anyone. And then Julian Cushing had come into her life, and she realized immediately why she'd been reluctant to form any other connection. The mere sight of him in the distance—or the sound of his voice with that peculiar intonation one heard only in a colonial —could make her pulses race and her knees tremble. Often she felt that intense blue-eyed gaze upon her, and she sensed a yearning that matched her own. Yet he remained silent.
And, Chloe recognized, she'd also hidden her true feelings. Not only was it immodest to parade one's naked hope and desire, but
there was another reason. She couldn't name it, for she hadn't thought of it in years. Now, watching the daylight brighten, she fought the niggling specter of doubt and fear forming in her mind. It was not Julian she doubted, but herself. Surely she loved him as she'd never loved anyone—and she was sure he felt the same. But was she worthy? How could she explain that "queerness" that made her so unlike others? How was she to interpret the senses or faculties she seemingly possessed—which others did not?
It was strange. Strange. That was the word for it. It made her different, and at first, it had been frightening. For years she had thrust the knowledge to the back of her mind. But now—now that she'd met someone she could love—how could she tell him? She had not even told her Aunt Rosa. Long ago she'd accepted that if no one was hurt by her "queerness," it needed no explanation. But if one were in love, surely one would need to divulge everything?
She remembered the first time the odd faculty had appeared. As a child she was scampering about the Cuddington House attic with a maid her aunt had sent to find some old lace stored in a box. The maid had been bad-tempered; the mistress hadn't told her which box, and there were so many! She was muttering to herself when Chloe pointed to a flat dusty box on a low shelf and said, "It's in there, Annie." The maid continued her search; clearly she considered Chloe impudent. Finally, outraged that her help was being so casually dismissed, the determined little girl had gone to the box, opened it, handed it to the maid and said, "There—just as I told you!" stamping a small foot for emphasis.
"Well, and you've bin up here a-lookin' before . . . and the mistress doesn't know of your peeldn'. I'll not be tellin' on ye!" Annie had taken the lace and gone, leaving Chloe to wonder at the strange assurance that made her know just which box it was in.
And then there had been the incident of the cap.
That had happened months later at Sparwefeld. She'd been embroidering a small hanging for her aunt's birthday, and her chubby fingers were awkward. She'd never be as adept at needlework as her Aunt Rosa! But she struggled on, pricking her fingers and leaving tiny dots of blood on the muslin pattern. Her aunt, aware of her niece's disdain for the work, finally pulled it away. "My dear, you'll never be a 'broiderer. But never mind, each has his own talent, and you paint quite nicely. Stop now and get your paint
box." She gestured toward the box lying near a glass-topped cabinet. Chloe knew
all the treasures it contained. An old missal, its delicate parchment pages filled with spidery handwriting in a language she couldn't read. But oh, the glorious colors! Glowing angels and archangels, twining leaves and vines around a delicate border, tiny blobs of gold accenting a robe or a tiara. "It was Elizabeth Cuddington's Book of Hours" her aunt explained, "made for her by the monks of Merton Priory." Then Chloe would ask again for the story of Richard and Elizabeth Cuddington, her ancestors and parents of that infamous Chloe for whom she'd been named. Aunt Rosa would patiently repeat how they'd owned everything for miles and miles around. Then an old king had come down from London and taken it all away and had all the buildings, including nearby Merton Priory, destroyed.
Chloe was always incensed at the story, her youthful sense of justice outraged. Her aunt would mollify her by taking the missal from underneath the glass and letting her stroke the pages. Then she would take out a small faded violet cap, made of stiff brocade and trimmed with a darkening silver thread, into which tiny seed pearls had been sewn. The violet was of a deeper hue in the folds, revealing the luminosity of the original color. "And this cap—you remember, I told you—this is the cap which your ancestress, the first Chloe Cuddington, embroidered when she was about your age." Rosa placed the delicate little cap in her hands.
Chloe had looked as it lay there, and she could visualize—oh, so easily!—how it had appeared the day it was new. A beautiful lavender-violet, with the silver trim bright and shining. And then, without thinking, she'd said, "Chloe Cuddington didn't make it, Aunt. It was made for her. It was a birthday present." She handed it back to her aunt, and feeling strange and reluctant to discuss the cap further, she'd run from the room and gone to the old bench outside near the garden where the birds came for food. There she sat and wondered why the vision of the violet cap as it had been was stronger than the sight of it now, nearly two hundred years later?