The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  Chloe and Julian exchanged glances; that had been the site of the extraordinary experience which had made him so ill. Julian continued reading:

  "I was shown over the Palace but unable to go into many Apartments as they were occupied. I was taken to the Presence Chamber to await the arrival of the Queen. Between Noon and One o'clock, men with white Staffs came in from one of the Inner Chambers; these were followed by a great number of Lords of high standing and then, alone, the Queen.

  She was most Lavishly attired, in a gown of pure white satin, gold-embroidered, with a whole Bird of Paradise for panache, set Forward on her Head studded with Costly jewels; she wore a string of huge Pearls about her neck and elegant gloves over which were drawn Costly rings. In short, she was most gorgeously apparelled, and although she was already sixty-six, she was very youthful still in her appearance."

  Julian's voice was mellow as he set the manuscript aside and they all savored the moment in Nonsuch's history his words had evoked. Rosa was the first to break the spell. "It's much better when you read it, Julian, dear." She rose, taking her needlework. "And I'm for my rest, my dears. I shall leave you now." She embraced her niece,

  who rose to kiss her good-night and then, hesitating only a moment, kissed Julian too, her eyes misty. "It would be lovely if you were here to stay for good," she said. And then she was gone.

  Julian returned the manuscripts to the bookshelves and joined Chloe, who was waiting at the door. Silently, they crept out the back, past Domino's garden and the dilapidated bench. The great beech tree spread a protective shadow over their path; they would be unobserved from the house. Looking back at the point where Chloe had painted her picture, they could see the tree silhouetted against the sky. Moonlight cascading through its branches dappled the path, and there was a muted soughing as the thick limbs rustled in the warm night air. Chloe shivered and would have stopped, but Julian pulled her on, around the gate and on the path to Nonsuch.

  The palace was very different in the moonlight. The treelined drive, so majestic during the day, was now a long tunnel of inky blackness. Chloe clung to Julian, and he put a protective arm around her. Both were relieved when they emerged into the outer courtyard with the rubble-strewn wine cellar to their left and the "wilderness" to their right. Ahead was the rise in the ground—the site of the gatehouse leading to the inner chamber. The jagged humps of the towers at the opposite end were sharply distinct in the moonlight. It was difficult to envision their former splendor in the play of black and white on such starkly defined destruction. The devastation was, oddly, more heart-rending in the soft moonlight than in the brightness of day. Julian spoke of this to Chloe. "That's because in the day you can see what it once was and your imagination can rebuild it," she said softly. "Now—now all you can see is the ruin and desolation."

  They sat "under the clock" as Chloe remarked on the rounded hump under which the eight gatehouse steps were buried. Facing them were the wine cellar and, up the slight rise, the fountain's stone plinth. Julian pulled Chloe close, and though the night was warm, she shivered slightly. "Remember what happened there, Julian."

  "My darling, I'm not likely to forget," he whispered. "There's something evil there, but it's the only place in Nonsuch that is so. It was wonderful to read as we did tonight the memories of men who'd actually seen the palace. Think of all that's happened here, Chloe! Think of all the thousands of people who've roamed these courtyards and lived in those rooms." He gestured toward the Privy

  Gallery. "Chloe, you're going to think me the complete fool when I say—"

  "That you think you've seen Nonsuch before?" She finished the sentence, gratified that he didn't laugh, only pulled her closer.

  "I'm sure," Julian replied. With her head on his shoulder, he recounted his experiences on the river and at the gardens when it seemed he was speaking with a Chloe, but not the one he held in his arms. "And what made me so obsessed with the portrait? What led me to James Cuddington's house? What made him decide to send me—when he could just as easily have hired a courier—to be the one to bring the portrait home? And why is it that you and I—that you and I. . . ."

  "That we've fallen in love? Oh, Julian, I, too, have wondered! Why could I never feel anything for anyone else? Some of my friends have been content to marry men they barely knew—they never actually expected to fall in love! But that was not for me. It was very important to me, Julian, not to wed. Sometimes, I almost felt as though I were waiting for someone."

  "I hope"—he kissed her cheek—"I was the one."

  "You know you were the one. I think I knew it the day we met and went to the Banqueting House. That used to be the only part at Nonsuch I thought haunted, but now I'm not so sure. I think maybe it's all haunted. . . . Sometimes I know I've been here before. When the old men in the village tell me how they remember the palace when they were young, sometimes I've wanted to say to them, 'No! No! That's not true-you have it all mixed up!' For in-stance"-she sat up—Tve always thought that wine cellar was meant for something other than just wine. It's too big for one thing. And I've often wondered why the workmen left that plinth under the fountain. It's a solid marble block-why didn't they take it away? Do you suppose, Julian, they felt what you felt there?"

  "We'll never know, darling, we'll never know"-he gathered her close, and they lay back on the ground-"but I know what I feel now."

  Chloe's arms tightened around his neck, and she returned his kiss with ingenuous ardor. Her body pressed close to his as he kissed her throat and breast. As her eyes closed, she drew her hands slowly along the nape of his neck and across his shoulders; her warm breath came in little passionate gasps. He felt her breasts beneath his hand, and her whole body arched toward his. She was as con-

  sumed with her love as he, and there in the darkness he thought— who would see? His limbs were fluid and warm and yearned to have her softness even more close. Surely their love for each other made it all right? Her kisses were becoming more abandoned, and she whispered, "Ah, Julian—my love."

  In his desire, as he pressed her hips tightly to him, something stirred in his memory. It gnawed at the back of his mind. He remembered a night on his father's Virginia plantation when he, a shy eleven-year-old child, had lain in bed, listening to the drums beating softly from the slave quarters. They kept him from sleep and stirred a latent excitement that only grew as he tossed and turned on his bed in the stifling air. After what seemed hours, exhausted with the effort to sleep, he rose and crept into the hall, past Tabby's room, out the front door and sped quickly across the lawn toward the slave quarters. He knew he was breaking a very important plantation rule, for his father was adamant that no whites visit the slaves' cabins after dusk. The black people had their ways, said Mr. Cushing, just as the whites had theirs. Julian now realized why his father had been so firm. While there were many half-white babies on other river plantations, there were none at Fairhaven. Mr. Cushing also insisted all merriment cease at midnight so the slaves would be fit to work the following day.

  Julian knew it must be nearly that hour as he ran down the little lane which divided the slave quarters from the big house, following the sound of the drums. He kept out of the moonlight, near the trees and bushes where he planned to hide as soon as he saw the men beating the drums. He was small and very likely would go unnoticed.

  He never got that far. The drums sounded louder, and as he paused for a moment to get his bearings, someone sped across his path, while others shouted in the rear. He huddled down in the bushes and, only a few feet away, saw Sarah, one of his mother's housemaids. She was a dusky black girl with flashing eyes and teeth and a long, sinuous body with high, full breasts. She was calling to three husky young blacks who had followed her; Julian presumed they were field hands since he didn't recognize them. Sarah seemed to be taunting them in a dialect he didn't understand. One of them caught her and, in two quick motions, ripped the thin calico dress from her body. Julian caught his breath, for Sarah wore nothing underneath. He had never
seen a naked woman before and thought

  the girl would protest. But instead, she only threw back her head and laughed loudly. The men clapped their hands and roared with delight as she whirled around, showing herself with great pride.

  In a moment the scene changed, and the first man threw her to the ground where she lay—supple and eager—her legs thrust apart, her arms held upward. Immediately, the man was on top of her. The other two, shedding their ragged pants, were urging the two on the ground to hurry; someone might find them! But the man and the girl were heedless, she moaning softly, her eyes closed while the man did things to her that caused Julian to feel hot shame running through his small body. He felt revolted, yet curiously stirred; he'd not known such things existed. No sooner had the first man risen than the second man flung himself on the girl and her legs intertwined with him. Suddenly, it was too much for Julian, and he'd turned, sweaty and fearful, and fled to his room to He awake long after the drums had ceased.

  Now it almost seemed he could hear the drums again—but they were in his pulse and in the throb of Chloe's heart beneath his hand. This girl was his, and he loved her, but the memory of the wanton Sarah on that hot summer night overcame him. Was this what he wanted for his beloved and himself? Was this the way to repay Rosa's trust? Was this the way to dishonor the ardor and violate the passion he'd aroused in this innocent girl? Their whole lives were before them. They were in love, and ultimately, they would marry. This was not the way it should be.

  With one last lingering kiss, Julian put Chloe to one side, saying lightly, "And that, my girl, is enough! What would the spirits of Henry the Eighth and all those queens who might still roam these ruins think of us treating their palace in such a wayward manner?"

  Chloe's face was flushed, and her clothing disarrayed, but Julian was gratified to see a smile as she ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her bodice. "I'm sure Henry would approve"—she almost giggled—"but as for the queens, well, it depends on which one you're thinking of. Some of them. . . ."

  Julian laid a finger on her lips and kissed her forehead. "Let's leave the royal shades to their own pleasure, darling. Remember why we came here? We have work to do." He stood up, pulling her toward the wine cellar. "We came here to look for the famous—or infamous—Nonsuch Lure, remember? Well, let's try! Shall we be very still and will ourselves to find it?"

  They stood on the edge of the long stone-laden rectangle, both very quiet. Chloe wanted to ask what they were supposed to do but could not find the words. Perhaps this was best left to Julian. He was gazing at the cellar stones, as if willing them to release their secret—if, indeed, they held one. He began to speak softly. . . .

  "The Nonsuch Lure . . . you must be here. Somewhere in all these ruins, you are waiting, a portent for good—or evil? I think for good. We come in peace, not to disturb you, only to find you, for whatever good you may bring to us—and to others." He was quiet for a moment, as if seeking the right words. "It will not be the first time we've met, you know. Wherever you are, we have seen you before. Perhaps you've been waiting for us as we have waited for you. We need only a sign—only a sign."

  There was utter quiet. Chloe found the silence almost overwhelming—and frightening. It seemed the very air had lost any semblance of life, as if she and Julian were suspended in a vacuum. She could see the moonlight, Julian and the jagged, sharp stones of the cellar, yet it seemed as if her mind was empty and her will gone. "Julian, do you think . . ." she whispered, breaking the silence.

  "Hush, oh, hush!" Julian appeared almost angry. "Listen, listen, Chloe, and feel." He clasped her hand and urged her along. "Let's walk around the cellar. Perhaps the feeling will be stronger on the other side." Chloe wanted to ask, "What feeling?" but Julian's tone silenced her.

  Together they walked the outline of the wine cellar—along one edge, around the end, back along the other side, until they reached their starting point. Then they did the same thing again; it took only a moment. On the third time around, Chloe said, "Julian, we're going in circles—in an ever-widening circle." She sounded frightened.

  "Will you hush!" Julian's voice was sharp, and Chloe bit her lip. She was afraid to keep going, and suddenly she was afraid of Julian. But that was foolish! Why be afraid of Julian? Julian, whom she loved and to whom she'd almost given herself a moment ago, until he'd proved the stronger of the two. How could she be afraid of Julian?

  She watched him as he stood at the cellar end, his strong features clearly etched in the moonlight. His head was thrown back, and his expression was quizzical—almost searching—as if he were desper-

  ately trying to remember something. He looked older, somehow different, and less her Julian. . . .

  Suddenly, he grasped her arm, and his tone was firm. "Chloe, darling, it's getting late, and the longer you delay, the darker it is going to be. Please, do this for me—go back to Sparwefeld."

  "And leave you here alone? Julian, I'll do no such thing!"

  He put his arms around her, smiling, yet somehow still distant. "You foolish child! What can happen to me here? In a field of ruins with moonlight as bright as day? Nothing! Nothing will happen to you either, but somehow I feel I may be able to find the Lure if I can concentrate on it alone. You're a very distracting influence, my darling." He kissed her lightly. "And if I find anything, I promise I'll come to you immediately—we won't even wait until morning. . . ." Seeing the doubt and concern in the great gray eyes, he became firm. "Now, you little goose—go! I've come all this way to find you, and ever since, I've heard of nothing but the Lure. Now I want to find it, too. Think of it, Chloe, if I find it, it might change our lives! I've written your uncle James that I feel you and I had met before—and that the Lure is somehow connected with us. I'm sure it will explain many things. Just trust me, my darling, and remember—we're for all time and we'll always be together."

  Chloe, near tears, but powerless to combat the will which was so much stronger than her own, remained in the circle of his arms. They were warm and reassuring. Suddenly, she almost laughed at her own fears. What a fool she was. Of course, he'd concentrate better if he were by himself!

  "All right, Julian, good luck, my darling," she whispered, "do take care. Remember, we've waited a long time." She kissed him, and his arms encircled her, but the hunger was gone. Clearly, Julian's mind was on other things. "Oh, darling, find the Lure and come back and tell me! Find it, please, Julian." Quickly she turned and stumbled toward the gatehouse rubble. "Under the clock" she turned to wave good-bye. Julian was standing with his arm raised in farewell—eager to begin his exploration, yet kind enough to remain so until she'd left. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, and she felt an intense sadness. But she must not let him know. She stood on tiptoe, blew a kiss, waved back and then disappeared into the dark tunnel of the drive.

  nterim

  Qhapter ^welve

  "And then what happened?" Timothy Hodge, clearly impatient, spoke as the tape spun to its end.

  "Nothing! I told you—nothing!" It was Andrew's voice speaking as Julian Cushing.

  "But something must have happened—what did you find after Chloe left? Did you find the Lure?"

  "I found nothing! Damn you, sir, can't you understand? Leave me alone." The voice broke off with a stifled sob. "Oh, God . . ."

  Timothy decided then the interview must end. No harm must come to Andrew, who was obviously distraught. Gently, he reminded his friend that he was all right, that he'd forget any discomfort and awaken refreshed and clearheaded. Repeating each suggestion several times, he was pleased to see Andrew taking his time awakening, for each moment would diminish any stress. Ultimately, yawning and stretching, Andrew opened his eyes and smiled. "Well, that wasn't so bad, Tim. I feel like I've had a good sleep-just a little stiff. How long did it take?" He looked at his watch. "My God, Tim, three hours!" Then, noting the pile of tapes, "Well, I hope it was worth it!"

  "It was . . . very much so." Often, during Julian's long recital, as he'd changed a
tape, Timothy had wondered what to do when Andrew woke up. Should he tell the truth? Or merely say he'd received a lot of garbled nonsense? At the end, when Julian refused to go further, he determined it was only fair to ask Andrew outright if he wanted to hear the tapes. At least he owed him that.

  Andrew, still skeptical, wanted to hear the recordings. Silently,

  Timothy inserted the first cartridge into the machine and settled back, noting the amusement in Andrew's eyes at the words, "This is August fifteenth. The time is two o'clock. . . ." Clearly, he considered it all something of a lark. But as the childish voice of eight-year-old Andrew said, "It was at Lord Sidney Breed's," his expression changed to one of astonishment. As the boy recited the story of Merrylegs and his experience at the fountain, Andrew appeared more guarded. Now, obviously, he recalled the story he'd repressed for years. As Timothy regressed him, suggesting a time "a few months before the beginning of the eighteenth century," Andrew seemed about to comment, then apparently thought better of it. Yet he remained attentive. He was startled at the sound of a voice so unlike his own admitting to the name "Julian Cushing." Again, with a hint of amusement in his expression, he settled back on the couch, his stockinged feet on the coffee table, and closed his eyes as Julian commenced his story.

  He remained silent all through the first tape. As Julian recalled his deep grief at his parents' death, Andrew's face darkened. On meeting Chloe at Nonsuch, his eyes mirrored the wonder and astonishment so apparent in Julian's voice as he recalled the marvel of meeting his adored in the flesh. Elbows on knees, his head bent forward and shadowed in the dimly lit room, he listened to Julian's distress as Chloe dragged him from the fountain, sighing with relief that the boy was unharmed. His eyes glistened unashamedly as Julian, naive and enthralled, described, with the soft voice of a poet, the wonder of his experience in the Abbey. And they closed, almost with hurt, upon the ecstasy in the boy's voice as he described his love for the silver-haired Chloe Cuddington.