by Mary Luke
Inevitably, such childish concern faded, and as the years passed, they'd have been forgotten except for the odd incidents that occasionally happened to remind her of them. Never, never had she told anyone of running with her dog outside the red-brick wall enclosing the backyard of Sparwefeld. Quickly rounding the corner, she'd
stopped, speechless at what she saw. There, under the greaf-beech tree which was considerably smaller than it actually was—and where she knew an old rotting bench to be—sat an old man. He was dressed in strange clothes and was throwing seed to the birds with the great sweeping motions she'd seen the village farmers use when they sowed their fields. Behind the man— who was he?—was a beautiful old farmhouse. Farmhouse? It was too handsome for a farmhouse.
As she watched, more than a little frightened, an old dog padded out from the farmhouse and lay at the base of the tree, heaving a contented sigh. Neither the dog, the birds, nor the man paid any attention to her or her dog. It was the sound of his whining that caused her to turn around, for the little dog was slinking away, his hair taut on his back and a terrified look in his great brown eyes. She tried to console him for a moment and then, gazing back, found the vision had disappeared. There was the bench, the flowers and the tree. But the man and birds, the house and dog were gone.
She'd been uneasy over it for weeks. Not only for the vague dread with which the incident filled her—but it brought to mind all the other little experiences that had puzzled her so. She knew of the ancestress who was supposed to be a witch. She'd had the same name and been involved in a frightful scandal. She'd been beautiful, of course, yet that beauty might have hidden a black heart as well as eyes that could look into the future. Just as she herself seemed to be able to look into the past.
Chloe had never told a soul of her experiences. And now, she wondered, how she could ever tell Julian? Tell him that the sounds she heard in the Banqueting House were sounds out of the past? And that she felt it was somehow linked to his frightful experience at the fountain? She couldn't explain the old man feeding the birds, but years later her Aunt Rosa had told her that the Cuddington manor house had been on that very site. And that the black and white board above the arbor was a domino, named for an old gardener who'd worked for the Cuddingtons and remained at Spar-wef eld when they'd gone to Suffolk.
There had been no recent episodes of her "queerness." Perhaps it had all been childish imagination. Perhaps over the years it would disappear, especially if she were involved and happy with someone she dearly loved. The thought—and the brightening rays of the
early sun now flooding the room—brought Chloe from her reverie. She picked up the diary once more:
"I am going to write no more until I have resolved this matter with Julian. I shall try to show him how I feel, though he will Doubtless think me a shameless hussy. I shall wait until we return to Nonsuch where we are to look for the Lure again. How I wish we could find it! Somehow, I feel that my Uneasiness at the Banqueting House and Julian's dreadful Experience at the fountain, are all connected to events of the Past. And I feel all such Events are linked with the original Chloe. I may look like her, but I will not be like her. ... I thank God I do not have her taint."
Her words recalled the scene that had occurred on their arrival at Cuddington House. Though Aunt Rosa usually served tea in the privacy of her own rooms, that day she'd insisted they all gather in her "receiving room" downstairs. Julian and Rosa were waiting as she entered. Immediately, her attention had been caught by the portrait on the wall. Seeing it, she felt almost faint, raising fingers to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Here was the Chloe whose namesake she was, and it might have been a portrait of herself. She was aware of Julian's keen gaze and her aunt's amused expression. She walked, as one in a dream, close to the fireplace. There she gazed at her own mirror image, clothed in a beautiful peach gown, hands so like her own folded demurely in her lap. The room now was exactly as it had been then. For a moment, Chloe felt she was caught in a time vacuum—she was here, but she was also there. She knew something was expected of her and welcomed her aunt's cheery words, "And amazingly like you, my dear, aren't you pleased?"
Chloe had wanted to cry out, "No, I'm not pleased—and I will not be like her!" and run from the room. Instead, she'd regained her composure and smilingly agreed the resemblance was remarkable. Julian had sensed her strain and immediately changed the subject It was most unusual—this rapport between them. As her aunt chattered on and served the tea, she'd smiled gratefully at Julian, loving him all the more for his perceptiveness.
A knock on the door—her maid had arrived with the hot water. Chloe hurriedly put the book away. This was going to be a happy day. She'd forget about Lures and scandals, witches and taints. All
London was waiting to be explored, and courtesy demanded their New World visitor see its wonders. Today was as good a day to start as any.
Rosa was pleased to yield her place as guide to Chloe, and after an early breakfast she waved them off to the stables. There they chose their mounts and, with one servant to accompany them, were soon abroad in the Strand. It was beginning to be crowded with coaches, carriages and sedan chairs. Inside them, tipsy occupants returning from late-night revels snored loudly. Ahead the dome of St. Paul's was pearly-pink in the weak sunlight cutting through the river's fog. On the Southwark side, in the low-lying pockets of marsh and reeds, the haze was still dense, yet the air was brisk enough to turn the windmills in Lambeth's marshy fields. As the mail coach clattered by, destined for the Belle Sauvage Inn in Lud-gate, Chloe called, "And now, Master Cushing from Virginia, where to? What is your pleasure? Ludgate, Aldgate, Whitehall? Smith-field? The Tower?"
Downriver, almost obscured by the jutting low land of Southwark, Julian could see the great span of London Bridge. He pointed to it. "Not the Tower! Not today— that's where I want to go, Chloe! We crossed before at Lambeth, and I didn't get to see the bridge."
"Then London Bridge it shall be! When you were little, Julian, did you sing the rhyme about it falling down?" The servant started ahead, and Chloe's mount fell into place beside his. He glanced at her admiringly. She was wearing a pale-green velvet jacket with an oyster-colored fichu at her throat and tiny rows of lace at her wrists. The green skirt spread gracefully over the burnished chestnut of the mare, for she rode sidesaddle as his mother and other Jamestown ladies had done. "Oh, yes, we sang of London Bridge falling down and"—eyeing her costume—"also about 'My Lady Greensleeves.'" Together they hummed a few bars and followed the servant's lead down the Strand, past the rotting remains of ancient Savoy Palace. Approaching Ludgate, they crossed a small bridge over the Fleet Ditch, and Chloe pointed to the vast pile of the Blackfriars where the Fleet waters lapped at its walls. "Last winter the Thames froze over," she said, "and we all went on the river—walking, Julian!—for it was frozen to a depth of over twenty feet. There were booths and tents for trade and bonfires—and we
could eat and skate! It was lovely in the moonlight, too. We came home by the Blackf riar water stairs."
Through Ludgate, they climbed the hill toward St. Paul's, and Julian could see the workmen on the scaffold around the great dome. "They're still abuilding after the fire," she said. "On the return we'll see the great windows and Paul's Cross."
At St. Paul's the servant led them into Cheapside, bustling with early-morning traffic. Merchants opening their stalls doffed their caps as Julian and Chloe passed, their breaths frosty on the cool air. Julian was amazed at the sight of the great thoroughfare—the largest he'd ever seen. Cheapside was filled with gabled and turreted houses, some of timber, others of brick. Opposite the famed Goldsmiths' Row was the Great Conduit, where, Chloe explained, everyone came for the water piped in from the countryside. Housewives were already busily filling mugs and flasks. Passing beautiful old Bow Church, Chloe told him how all London had marveled that the Norman crypt had escaped the Great Fire, although old Mr. Wren had had to rebuild the church itself, along with so many others.
They rode
into the Poultry, up the Corn Hill, turning south into Gracechurch Street. Ahead was the bridge. "There it is, Julian," Chloe cried, "one of the wonders of the world! Better see it for the first time from this end—the other end may have criminals' heads on pikes! Not a very nice welcome to London, I'm afraid."
At the newly rebuilt Church of St. Magnus, the Martyr, a line was waiting for admittance. Nearby, filthy beggars were making themselves comfortable for the day, spreading their rags on the ground to display the festering sores covering arms and legs. One called beseechingly, and Julian was pleased to see the servant toss him a coin. It was the first beggar he'd ever seen; he thought how odd the man would have looked in Williamsburg.
While the horse pawed impatiently to be on its way, Julian's attention was caught by the little church across the river near Winchester House, the former mansion of the Bishop of Winchester. He remembered how Mr. Shakespeare had referred to the inhabitants of the nearby brothels (which stood on land owned by the bishopric) as "Winchester Geese." And how shocked a visiting Frenchman, hearing the Thames boatmen cry, "Oars! Oars!" when they were for hire, thought they were promoting the harlots' charms. He must remember to tell Rosa and Chloe the story. On the other
hand, perhaps he'd better not. Amusing in Virginia, it might possibly be of questionable taste at Cuddington House.
The crowd thinned as they approached the bridge, where, after the servant paid a toll, they clattered onto the cobbled roadway. "Julian, I've a surprise I" Chloe cried as she rode beside him. "It's just ahead." She called to the servant, and they all pulled to one side to escape the traffic. Julian savored the quiet moment on the ancient bridge lined on both sides with houses and shops. Some of the occupants were already at the windows, gazing at the river scene, some with breakfast in their hands. "There it is, Julian!" she cried.
Ahead was a magnificent building, four stories high, with two great turrets. It spanned the entire width of the bridge with archways below through which traffic passed. The four stories were covered with carved stucco panels of various designs: soldiers, Roman emperors in flowing togas, carved griffins, flowers or heraldic emblems. It all looked somehow familiar.
"It's Nonsuch House, Julian." Chloe answered his unspoken question, "Nonsuch House—named after our Nonsuch in Surrey! But as you can see, the towers here are a little different." She sounded so knowledgeable Julian had to suppress a smile, even as he gazed in awe at the great structure so lightly striding the bridge. There was little doubt it had been modeled after Nonsuch. Chloe said it was now the home of the Lord Mayor.
As they approached the bridge's center, the rotting foundations of a long-vanished building were still visible. "That was the Chapel of Thomas a Becket," Chloe said. "It was destroyed, probably about the time Nonsuch House was being built. There were many religious troubles then, I guess. But it must have been very beautiful." Julian was reminded of the vast cathedral he'd seen silhouetted against the Kentish horizon. Thomas had been its archbishop and murdered within its very walls.
There were no rotting heads atop Traitors' Gate, much to Chloe's relief. Emerging at the Southwark end, Julian saw boats for hire and felt a sudden longing to be on the river. Quickly, he said, "Chloe, send the servant back with the horses, and let's go on the water! I remember once reading that the only way to see London is from the river."
Chloe's heart thudded with excitement; she blushed as she dismissed the servant. Julian was busy choosing a boat; he finally
settled on a bright yellow sldff. "Not as grand as the queen's barge, Mistress Cuddington, but it'll have to do." He smiled as he handed her in.
She sat quietly opposite as the boatman poled out from the water stairs, trailing her fingers in the water as it rushed toward the marshy shore. Though it was barely midmorning, the sun was already warm, and her face was flushed with pleasure. Julian gazed at the slim figure reclining so gracefully among the cushions, the sunlight making a silvery nimbus of the hair escaping from the little green cap. The jacket was tight across her young breasts and accented the tiny waist he was sure his hands could span. The mere thought made his pulses race. Her skirt was disarrayed among the cushions and revealed two slim ankles encased in white hose and square-toed shoes of soft leather with lustrous gold buckles. She was so desirable, so completely the embodiment of everything he'd dreamed since he'd first seen Chloe Cuddington's portrait! His eyes lingered on the curve of her cheek; he could see the tiny golden hairs near the full lips, so odd in contrast with the deep black brows and incredibly smoky gray eyes.
As she turned to face him, her features seemed to enlarge and brighten. She was the same, yet so different. She was speaking to him, but it seemed from a distance. He must have replied, for she smiled and spoke to the boatman, who appeared amused at her comment. For just a moment it was almost like a mirage or illusion —some trick of his fancy. It was all so familiar; he seemed to be reliving a youthful memory. Then, suddenly, he recalled his dreams of skimming a broad river. This was it, just as he'd seen in his dreams. And he was sure, it was not the first time. We have done this before, he thought.
Chloe felt the intensity of his gaze. She knew he was thinking of her, for his eyes were alight with an intimacy—almost a knowledge —she'd not seen previously. She remembered the words she'd written that morning—perhaps she wouldn't have to be a "shameless hussy" after all. Perhaps he'd given her some chance to show how she felt. The thought made her heart pound. What could she say? Feeling a little light-headed, she said, "Now the view, Julian. It won't be really spectacular until we're near the Temple. There you can see back where you've been and also where you're going."
"An admirable situation under any circumstances," he replied, breaking the spell. "I know where I've been. Yet I'm not so sure
where I'm going. ..." He frowned, and they both were silent for a moment. Then, taking her hand, he said, "But we're not going to let my uncertainties spoil our day! Chloe, you'll never know how I've dreamed of seeing London like this. Actually, I have dreamed of seeing London—and with someone very like you. It's all so beautiful. And you— you are making it very special. I never expected to meet you." Her hand lay unprotestingly in his; he longed to raise it to his lips.
"Nor I you, Julian. I never expected really to meet anyone." Her voice was almost a whisper. His grasp tightened. It really would not do to kiss a young lady's hand under the boatman's amused stare while midstream on the Thames. At least not this young lady. "Chloe," he said, "let's make this a day to remember. I want you to show me your London—just as you showed me your Nonsuch. We'll pretend that this is the queen's barge and I'm your suitor with sword and cap and you, of course, are a great lady in a farthingale with satin and lace all encrusted with jewels."
She caught his mood instantly. "If we're in the queen's barge, Julian, we shouldn't be holding hands. Royalty doesn't always approve of such goings-on"—she giggled—"at least not in the open." Promptly he released her hand, and laughing, they relaxed back in their seats and watched the panorama of London unfold before them.
By late afternoon they were back at Cuddington House. It had been a joyous time, and Chloe was eager to set it down in her diary. She sat at her desk near the window facing on the river from which they had just come and wrote:
"May 4, 1700. This has been the most wonderful day of my life. And all because it has been spent with Julian. We were Abroad very early, for he wished to see the city. After the bridge where we both saw Nonsuch House—such a Surprise to him!—we took a skiff. On the River, Julian said we must pretend to be in the Queen's barge. I answered him that if we were Royal, then we must go to the Court. The boatman left us at Whitehall Stairs and we strolled in the Privy Garden where Julian led me Unaware to the fountain and I was immediately sprayed and wet!
There was much amusement as we walked down the street towards the Hall and the Abbey. We bought some hot pies and fruit and ate them in the Westminster Palace ruins. I had not known they were so Extensive. The Jewel Tower is almost all
that is left, and we tossed the Remains of our meal to the fish in the little moat.
We went into the Abbey—Julian approaching it almost with reverence and he was clearly awed by the Nobleness of the building. As we knelt in prayer, his face was almost Transfigured with joy. Walking home along the riverbank, he told me that for the first Time, worship had been as Glorious as he knew it could be. His soul had seemed Consumed, and he said that when he was Young, he had thought of entering the church. He described the little church at Jamestown and how Dissatisfied he'd been with the Musick and Sermons. He said now he Felt he was not good enough to offer his Soul to God, that perhaps the best Way to serve Him was by teaching the young of the country that is a-building across the Sea. But in our time in the Abbey, I could see he had found great Joy and Release, and he intimated as much to me as we walked Homeward.
Tonight Aunt Rosa is taking us to Vauxhall Gardens. She says Julian must see a proper Publick garden and Vauxhall is the best. Tomorrow we shall visit the Golden Hind, which is moored near the Temple. Julian wishes also to see Greenwich Palace—he says he doesn't expect it to compare with Nonsuch. He is eager to return for one last visit before he leaves for Virginia.
I do not think I can stand the thought of his leaving here for ever."
Shortly after dusk that afternoon, three costumed and masked figures left Cuddington House for the renowned public gardens at Vauxhall on the surrey side of the Thames. One was a shepherdess with a mask as silvery as her hair; the other a handsome juggler who wore his particolored tights and belled cap with easy elegance. The third, more plumply rounded, was easily recognizable as Nell Gwynn, the orange girl. Chloe blushed at the depth of her Aunt Rosa's decolletage. She'd also adorned her cheeks—a tribute to the cosmetician's art—with two black beauty marks. Her hair, unpow-