The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  dered, lay disheveled about her shoulders. There were no oranges in her basket, only a fan and a small velvet bag swollen with coins. Clearly, Rosa was not going to Vauxhall merely to see its wonders.

  In the coach as it rumbled toward the horse ferry that would take them across the river, she said, "Vauxhall is famous throughout Europe, Julian, and you mustn't leave our city without seeing it. I am certain there's nothing to compare with it in the Colony."

  "Of that I am sure, madam," the juggler replied. "Truly, you have so much here that we do not have at home." His eyes behind the mask were on Chloe as he spoke, and Rosa was gratified to see her niece's pleasure. Something had surely happened on their river excursion. They'd seemed very close on their return, with eyes only for each other. Julian appeared confident, and Chloe radiantly happy. Rosa sighed. If Vauxhall didn't provoke something more than confidence and radiance, Julian would surely return to Virginia unspoken, and her niece might well become a spinster, being as particular as she was.

  Once across the river, they boarded another coach bound for Vauxhall. They could hear the merriment and music before the gardens came into view. As the coach left them at the entrance, Rosa explained that Vauxhall covered twelve acres, and it seemed they were all ablaze with light. Lamps were everywhere: on lawns, graveled walks, along gooseberry hedges, in an acre of rose garden and along treelined avenues. They shone on tiny summerhouses with espaliered cherry trees on their sides, on triumphal arches decked with bunting and greens, on "follies" and several large rotundas or temples, where musicians vied with the noisy crowd to be heard. One large lacy structure—fashioned after a maharaja's temple—was filled with exotic birds and tropical plants Julian had never before seen. Stands draped in gauze and muslin and hung with bright banners sold scraped beef and fragrant ham slices, while tea booths provided tea, wines and syllabub. Some had brought their own picnics and chosen vine-laden arbors or booths where they might eat in privacy. Others sat idly on the lawns, listening to the music or watching a pantomime while the beau monde rubbed shoulders with the demi monde.

  And everywhere there were statues: of Apollo, Minerva and Athena and of Mr. Purcell, whose music was often performed in one particularly large temple which, their hostess explained, was used when the royal family came to Vauxhall.

  At the gaming pavilion Rosa looped the velvet purse over her wrist, snapped open her fan and waved Julian and Chloe away. She intended to try her luck at the tables and encouraged them to enjoy the revels as she hoped to do.

  A loud crackle and a shower of sparks in the sky announced the beginning of the fireworks. Julian took Chloe's hand, and together they ran to the site just as the colorful display began. Each salvo and its resulting explosion colored the horizon before its sparks fell in the fields of Lambeth. Between explosions they could hear the smothered laughter and conversation of amorous couples all around them in the darkness. Occasionally, a satyr or an overendowed nymph would approach them, wriggling suggestively, but it was clear the juggler and the shepherdess had little interest, and soon they were left alone.

  Chloe thought Rosa's absence might be awkward, but her experience with Julian in the Abbey that afternoon— was it only that afternoon?—had given her a deeper glimpse into his nature. He was not one for idle flirtation; neither was she. Often she'd wondered if she'd ever meet someone to whom she could give herself. Now she knew Julian to be that person, and she knew, intuitively, that he felt the same.

  "And what do you think of Aunt Rosa's Vauxhall, Julian?" A great sparkling explosion in the sky lit her features. They had both taken off their masks. "Will you remember this when you return to Virginia?"

  "It's a fairyland, Chloe, and when I tell people in Jamestown and Williamsburg what it was like here, they won't believe me." He laughed. "Especially when I tell them all this wanton gaiety is right in sight of the homes of the Bishop of Winchester and the Archbishop of Canterbury!" He gestured toward Lambeth Palace in the distance. "They don't understand things like that in Williamsburg. We're a simple people."

  "Tell me about Williamsburg, Julian."

  "There's no way to describe it to make you understand. Perhaps the best way is to say that everything is new. Here in London, at Cuddington House or at Sparwefeld, you measure time in centuries. Everything is ancient and justified by tradition. At home we measure in decades, and we're still making our tradition. It's a great responsibility, but also a great opportunity."

  "You'll do well, Julian." Chloe laid a small hand on his as it lay on the bench. "You'll do well. But oh, I wish. . . ."

  "What do you wish, Chloe?" Julian tipped her chin with his fingers, that strong chin with its deep cleft. He was stirred at the inviting look in the gray eyes so confidently raised to his. She did not answer. Instead, she put both arms around his neck and laid her lips against his. He could feel the thrust of her strong young breasts against the thin costume. The perfume of her hair, the softness of her kiss aroused his senses as never before. Everything—the music, the murmuring voices nearby, the thump and explosion of the fireworks—faded. There was nothing but this warm sensation slowly engulfing him, making him one with the girl in his arms.

  She finally spoke. "And now, dear Julian, are you still so anxious to return home?" She was smiling, though a little pale, and her voice was trembling. Julian understood. His Chloe was obviously a little taken aback at her own impetuousness.

  "Never. I never want to go home, darling Chloe." He tipped her chin again and lightly brushed her cheek with his lips. "You know I love you. How could you not know? From the moment I saw you there at Nonsuch I've been living a dream. I think I fell in love with the portrait first, but that was a distant love, obviously. The lady had been dead a long while." Suddenly they both laughed, and the last of the tension disappeared. "But you are here—alive and lovely—and oh, Chloe, I do love you and I want you so. . . ." At this he gathered her again in his arms, kissing her fervently, yet with great tenderness.

  No longer was there any pretense. They walked away from the fireworks to a small arbor where the flowers appeared ghostlike in the moonlight. With arms about each other's waists, they spoke of their feelings. Chloe wanted to fling her arms around Julian's neck, to dance and to skip for joy. Pure happiness flooded her as she tightened her hand in his. How would they tell Aunt Rosa? she asked. And when? Her eagerness was contagious, and Julian, responsive to her mood, caught at her waist; his fingers almost did span its curve. He kissed her cheeks and lips, her throat, and she returned his caresses with a passion that surprised and shook him.

  And with the release of their love, they talked and talked. As they sat on a bench, eating ices purchased from a passing vendor, it seemed to Julian they were part of a scene he knew well. Slowly, just as it had on the river, everything in the background appeared

  to fade. Chloe had donned a cloak against the river's damp, and its hood covered her hair, while her features were shadowy in its curve. She was speaking and smiling, eating the delicate ice gracefully, yet Julian didn't hear a word. Again, as on the river, she appeared larger than life, strong and brighter. An illusion? A fantasy? She seemed to notice nothing amiss, so he must be making the appropriate replies. Yet another part of his mind was carrying on a conversation with another Chloe—a very different Chloe. It was above love, sensual and pure; about marriage, elusive and impossible. And about themselves—two young people caught in a situation for which they weren't responsible and for which there appeared to be no resolution. It was so similar to the river experience that Julian realized—indeed knew— that again, this was something they'd done before. Even as his heart accepted the fact, his mind rebelled. How foolish! How could they have done such things before when they'd only just met?

  ". . . and you must remember, Julian, I won't mind waiting. Oh, I have such faith in you, my dear! And when you're ready, you'll send for me, and I'll come to you in Williamsburg. Oh, Julian, how I'll miss you! And how I'll long to be with you every day." Chloe rested her head on hi
s shoulder, and Julian, not daydreaming now, caught her close. It had all come true. Even as months before and miles away, he'd gazed at a portrait and fallen in love, so now the embodiment of all that was beautiful and graceful was here in his arms. And Chloe loved him. As his senses were stirred by her passion, his soul was now humble at her understanding and generosity. Chloe said she'd wait for him, and Julian knew it was true. He would wait, too. He'd been waiting not merely since he'd seen a portrait in Williamsburg, but much longer, and so had Chloe. The feelings he'd experienced on the river and just moments before convinced him it was not only years they'd waited. It had been centuries.

  Qhapter ffleven

  On their return from Vauxhall, they told Rosa what had happened. She threw up her fan, flung her basket to the ground and embraced them both. As if she needed to be told, she said, tearful but happy, for two more starry-eyed creatures she'd never seenl No one slept much that night, and they rose early, for Julian wished to pay one last visit to Sparwefeld and Nonsuch. He hoped to sketch the house, the ruins and some scenes in Ewell to take back to James Cuddington in Williamsburg. Everyone agreed it would be one way to repay the old gentleman—Julian could imagine his pleasure in looking upon the scenes he'd left so long ago.

  Rosa vowed that she, too, must find a present for James, and, after some time in the attic, emerged dusty but triumphant, with a small framed picture. "You take this to Uncle James, Julian, with my love," she said, "and tell him this is for sending the original Chloe back to us. I think he'll recognize it, for it hung in this house when he was a child."

  "What is it, Aunt?" Chloe leaned over Julian's arm to look at the picture. "I haven't seen it before . . ." Her voice trailed off. She appeared shaken and pale.

  "My dear, what is it?" Rosa patted her shoulder. "Are you unwell? Too much merrymaking last night?"

  Chloe struggled to regain her composure. Catching her breath, she laughed lightly. "Oh, it's nothing, Aunt—I only thought I'd seen the place before. But, of course, I haven't."

  It was a lie, and while she might fool her aunt, she knew she wasn't fooling Julian. Again she looked at the picture. It was of a

  large manor house, sumptuous and fine, with rhododendrons and lilacs in front, and sunlight gleaming on its many-paned casement windows. Steeply gabled and ornamented, it had a timelessness the artist had captured as distinctly as he had the noble old beech tree in the center of a lawn curving to the front entrance. Under the tree was a sturdy bench. It was the very building of her long-ago vision, and seeing it brought back that special moment when the old man had sat, throwing seed to the birds.

  "That's Richard Cuddington's manor house—it used to be out to the rear," Rosa explained. "You remember, Julian, I pointed the place out to you. This picture was painted by Chloe Cuddington herself in the year the king took the land. It was intended as a gift for her cousin, little Richard Cuddington, who later became a very famous painter himself. Chloe herself was never a great artist, but I do think this little picture is charming." She handed it to Julian.

  He took it with hands that suddenly trembled. Here was something tenable and physical, something Chloe herself had once held. He could almost sense her touch, almost visualize the scene with her eyes, as she worked to record a beloved home. He could almost feel her sadness.

  "So this was her house—this is what the king tore down. How they must have hated to leave!" He agreed James would indeed treasure the little picture. "You are generous, madam, and will give him much pleasure with your gift. I'll deliver it with all the care I took to deliver Chloe Cuddington herself."

  Rosa excused herself, and picture in hand, Julian followed Chloe, who was tugging excitedly at his arm. Out to the rear they raced, past the stables, toward the great arching beech tree. Using the tree as a pivotal point, they finally stood about where Chloe had brought her paint box to record the scene so soon to be destroyed. "It's so much the same," Chloe whispered. "Oh, Julian, I've seen it like this. Just like this! Except there was an old man feeding the birds." She pointed to the board with the white dots hanging near the arbor. "It was Domino. My aunt told me about the Cudding-tons' gardener, old Domino. That was his garden. He was a great friend of Elizabeth Cuddington, Chloe's mother, and the little girl was devoted to him, too. She made the king keep a house for him because he was too old to go to Suffolk with the others. That's how we have Sparwefeld, for at one time it was his cottage. But, Julian, I

  saw him!" She explained how the vision had occurred, how she felt when her dog began whining in terror.

  Julian was silent, remembering the day he'd first walked toward Nonsuch. He'd come this way and had placed the house near the lilacs and rhododendrons and pictured young Chloe waiting for her parents' return. He gazed again at the little portrait—it was a beautiful home, mellow and welcoming. He almost expected to see its owners walk out the front entrance.

  "My darling Chloe," he said, "I don't think you have to be afraid. This is not an evil place. What you saw was really a very peaceful scene. You are sensitive and gifted, just as your ancestress was."

  Immediately, he was sorry he'd uttered the words, for Chloe gasped, her fingers to her face, which had gone very white. "I'm not a witch, Julian Cushing!" she cried. "Don't compare me to her!"

  She turned to run, but Julian caught her. "Oh, darling, I didn't mean anything like that." He held her close, still clutching at the picture. "Chloe, stop it. I didn't mean anything wrong. You tell me you've seen—actually seen this before. You tell me about other incidents like the violet cap. My dear, this is nothing to be ashamed of! I think you should consider yourself fortunate! How many other people can claim to see something that existed centuries ago?" She seemed mollified, and he continued, "Of course, the original Chloe was no witch! I've never believed she was. Your own experiences are the real explanation—she had a similar gift. And it is a true gift. But people of her time looked at it otherwise—it was a very superstitious era." He was uncomfortably reminded of his own two previous instances while speaking with her when seemingly she'd been replaced by another creature who was Chloe and yet not his Chloe. How would such experiences be viewed today? Not as natural happenings, he knew. He'd thought a great deal about it all and an explanation—farfetched and impossible—was forming in his mind. Dare he tell his beloved what he thought?

  "Chloe, darling, now listen to me. I've an idea what all this might be. And it's all connected with the original Chloe, with Nonsuch and with the Lure, whatever that was. I think maybe that's one reason why I was brought across the sea. Maybe it's fate or some sort of lure or something magnetic. Remember old Dr. Dee was involved in that scandal with Chloe, and he was an alchemist. Perhaps he perfected a magnet of some kind. Maybe, even, that was the Lure?"

  Chloe was soothed by Julian's words—anything to rid herself of association with her ancestress, with lures and Dr. Dee. There was still much she didn't understand, and she felt that Julian—dear, protective Julian—had some knowledge he'd not shared with her. However, she wasn't going to let that spoil their remaining time together. They must make the most of every moment she'd have to treasure and remember after he'd returned to Virginia.

  "Julian, darling, I've a wonderful idea." She took both his hands. "Oh, Julian, let's go back to Nonsuch—tonight! I've never been there at night—my aunt would never hear of it. So we must keep it a secret. It'll be perfectly safe, for we'll be together. Oh, Julian, it's going to be a wonderful night—to see Nonsuch in the moonlight!"

  Julian's face lit up. It was a wonderful idea. "Marvelous! We'll sit near the wine cellar and will ourselves to find the Lure! How I'd like to find it before I go! If we have to, we'll call upon all the spirits of heaven—and hell, if necessary—to tell us where it is. Chloe, darling, I'm more sure than ever that Nonsuch has the answer for us. Tonight maybe we'll find out what it is."

  After supper they sat with Rosa as she worked her embroidery near the warmth of the great stone fireplace. Julian had rummaged in the bookshelves and fo
und some manuscripts Rosa described as accounts of visits travelers had made to Nonsuch in the years of its glory. She'd read them to Chloe as a child and was sure Julian would be interested.

  "Read them again, Julian—it's been a long time since I've heard them," Chloe urged.

  Julian picked up the first manuscript. "This is by a Paul Hentzner—from his Travels."

  "The Palace itself is Encompassed with parks full of deer, delicious gardens, and groves Ornamented with trees. In the pleasure and artificial gardens are many Columns and pyramids of marble, two fountains that spout water, one Round, the other like a pyramid, upon which are perched small birds that stream water out of their bills. In the Grove of Diana is a very agreeable fountain. . . ."

  "And further in the other manuscript, Julian—find it, do!—there's a firsthand account of a man who saw Queen Elizabeth at Nonsuch. Do you remember, Chloe, my reading these to you years ago?" Rosa put aside her needlework, listening intently as Julian read.

  "Here it is—a visit by a Mr. Thomas Platter." He smoothed the page. "Oh, this is beautiful—listen!"

  "On Sunday, Sept. 23, 1599, we drove from London by coach to see Nonsuch. It is a fine Royal residence; it takes its name from its magnificence, for None Such is equivalent to non-pareille— without equal, for there is not its equal in England. It is built entirely of great blocks of white stone. Above the doors of the Inner Court, stone statues of three Roman emperors are erected and I Noticed a very handsome and elaborate snow-white stone fountain upheld by dragons."