by Mary Luke
"My dabling Child,
We were happy to receive your letter telling us news of London and that the sittings were going so well. We will be anxious to see the Portrait of our beloved girl, whom we miss very much.
All is going as well as could be expected here at Cudding-ton. We shall be departing this sad Place within the next few weeks, for most preparations are complete. There has been an unexpected Occurrence, however, of which I am sorry to have to write.
You'll remember that Father Felix was to go to Westminster Abbey. On the day after he arrived home, Thomas went to say farewell to the Prior, for already the workers have begun to pull down some of the outer Walls. He was also to receive some Memento which Father Felix had promised to give him. When he entered the Prior's chamber—oh, Chloe, I am so saddened to write this—he found the old man had died. Father Felix was sitting in his chair, and according to Thomas (who
was struck as Dumb by what he'd found), he had a most peaceful, almost serene expression on his face. There were no marks of any struggle or pain. Thomas said it looked as though the Prior had just sat down and "willed himself to die."
We were upset at this added Burden of sorrow, but perhaps it's best for Father Felix to go as he did, rather than have to start a new life at his age.
Thomas was saddened and Upset, of course. There are a few monks left at Merton, and so the funeral is to be held quickly with only tonight to visit the Bier. Then he will be buried in some Holy Ground in Ewell; your Father has promised to attend to it all for, in the general confusion at Merton, no one else is there to take the responsibility. Your Father is tired, and this was an added and distressing charge, but he would take on the dispensing of this debt, which he said he owed to an old and honorable Friend.
I am sorry to end on such an unhappy note. But you know, my dearest daughter, that these are sad Times at Cuddington. I pray that when we get to Ixworth, we may all be our happy Selves again."
Chloe went into the chapel to pray for Father Felix. She'd never known a day when he hadn't been at Merton Priory. The sad tone of her mother's letter remained in her mind throughout the day and was still there as she lay in bed at night, gazing at the window through which she could hear the busy noises of the Strand and the cry of the watermen at the bottom of the Durham House water stairs. At the thought of all the wearisome activities ahead before they journeyed to Suffolk, she buried her head in the pillow, realizing she was on the verge of sleep. And then, suddenly, she was asleep and had begun to dream.
In her dream—and, oddly, she knew it was a dream—she was standing in the ruins of a building which at first she didn't recognize. Everything seemed so real and even right for her to be there. As she walked among the ruins, she came upon a section of brightly tiled material which she recognized as the flooring her parents had given to the Cuddington church. Of course! She was in the ruins of the church. Part of the walls still stood, and one large beam near the chancel remained. Otherwise, it lay bare to the elements, and all around were piles of debris, as well as neatly stacked brick and
stone which she assumed would be used for whatever edifice the king intended to build.
She wandered, seemingly at home, knowing just where she was going and what she was going to do. Here had been the crypt, and over there, under the nave, she knew were several burial vaults. The debris was interesting. Closer inspection revealed some roundels, corbels and fragments of statues—it was Merton Priory stonel She even recognized several gargoyle heads. The irony of priory stone filling in the foundation of the king's new building made her smile. For a brief moment the king's face floated before her in her dream. "I give you good day, mistress!" he called, his voice sounding far off before it disappeared altogether.
She walked along the edges of the ruins skirting the building materials until the sound of footsteps in the distance caused her to slip behind a huge pile of newly fired bricks. Yet she knew that even if she didn't hide, she couldn't be seen. It was—after all—only a dream, she reminded herself. But it seemed natural to hide. She made no attempt to still the gasp that came at first sight of her visitors. First came Thomas, carrying a heavy gold cross in his right hand, a small wooden coffer in the other. Following him was a tall blond man. Chloe almost cried out—it was her fatherl
Richard Cuddington was pulling a hurdle, a small sledlike conveyance, to which was fastened a long box resembling a coffin. He pulled it around the debris and piles of building materials which rimmed the foundations. Near the ruined church which she'd just seen, they stopped, and Chloe held her breath, knowing all the while they couldn't see or hear her, but feeling compelled to caution anyway. What were they doing? She crept farther out from her shelter and watched.
Obviously, the two men had visited the site previously and knew exactly where they were going. They stopped at what appeared to be the bricked-up portion of a doorway set into the wall, with its heavy lintel stone overhead. It was all part of a new foundation. Quickly, they removed the stone, and with one sweeping gesture, Richard Cuddington caused the piled-up bricks, which had no mortar between them, to topple to the ground. Peering through the dust as it settled, Chloe could see the large empty space. How had her father and Thomas discovered it?
Quickly, they worked, clearing the bricks so the hurdle might be drawn near. Then, swiftly, they lifted the coffin and placed it
within the depths. There was just sufficient light for Chloe to see Thomas motion to her father to open the coffin lid. Quickly, he took the small coffer and placed it in what she assumed was the inside of the coffin. And then, in the strange way dreams always occurred, she could see into the coffin. She wasn't frightened. For there was Father Felix, dressed in a handsome cope of red and gold, a cap on his white hair, his waxen features serene. His hands had been arranged so that the small coffer just fit. How clever, thought Chloe in her dream, again reminding herself that it was only a dream.
Both men then stood up, barely clearing the still bricked-up portion of the wall, and she strained to hear their words. Thomas was intoning in Latin and making the sign of the cross. Her father stood by, his head bent. Then he closed the coffin lid, and the monk carefully and reverently placed the heavy golden cross on the cover. Both men moved back, crossed themselves and stood for a moment in silent prayer. Then, as one, they hurriedly began to brick up the wall, using mortar they'd carried in a heavy iron vat for that purpose. Swiftly they lined the bricks, placing the substance on them, then laying another line of bricks and doing it all so swiftly Chloe thought her dream was beginning to unravel. They didn't bother to line the bricks accurately, although they removed some of the excess mortar. Chloe heard her father say, "They'll never notice. Whoever left this task undone will think someone else finished it." Thomas smiled and, gesturing to the piles of Merton stone, replied, with what seemed like bitter humor, "We'll leave more than the body of Merton's prior here, Sir Richard. There's going to be a good bit of Merton itself, it seems." He smiled as he finished his work. "Yes, a good bit of Merton will always remain at Cuddington now, no matter what they do." He brightened as he finished off the last tier of bricks, and both men lifted the heavy lintel stone back into place.
As they did so, one of them tipped over the vat of mortar, and it seeped onto the rough earthen floor. Quickly, Richard Cuddington righted the vat and, with one of the implements he'd worked with, scooped up the remainder of the mortar and replaced it in the vat. The space they were working in was restricted, and in their eagerness to be finished and gone, both men had stepped into the mortar. Now, laughing like two children once an unhappy task is completed, they moved back onto the ground, mortarlike bits clinging to boots and sandals. "No matter, Thomas," she heard her fa-
ther say, "we must be gone, for it will be light very soon . . . come along!" And then, after one long backward glance, during which Thomas made the sign of the cross, they hurriedly disappeared into the shrubbery on the opposite side of the ruins.
As Chloe made ready to leave, she saw s
omeone approaching in the opposite direction. Again she crouched below the bricks and watched as the figure continued in her direction. Stiffening, she recognized the man. It was Hurst. He was dressed in the familiar garb of an undergardener, but he looked very different. There was no deference in his manner; he seemed to possess complete authority and exuded a certainty, a knowledge she knew was foreign to the man as he actually was. Or was it?
She watched as he prowled along the rim of the new foundation. It was almost as if he scented an intrusion, she thought, but was relieved to see him pass by the burial place without stopping. Suddenly, he lifted his head and gazed about him, slowly . . . slowly . . . watching and waiting ... in an eerie moment that seemed an eternity. She felt the cold trickle of fear in her stomach, and it crawled along the nape of her neck, down into her arms, weakening her hold on the pile of bricks. For he'd turned in her direction and was coming toward her. He was smiling—his brown teeth bared in a hateful smile—his hands stretching out to her. As he saw her, he broke into a run. Coming closer, he cried, "You're here! I knew you were here, and I had to come!" She gathered her strength to run, but her limbs felt heavy. She hoped she could run quickly to join her father and Thomas, who must still be nearby. Then she realized she mustn't divulge their presence, and as panic overcame her, she struggled to elude Hurst's grasp and, as he came closer, opened her mouth to scream.
Chloe awakened, trembling and in a cold sweat, at the edge of nausea. Weakly, she sat up in bed, pushing the silvery hair from her eyes with shaking hands and, at the same time, quickly glancing around the comfortably familiar room. She was alone. Her breath still came in heavy gasps, and her heart was pounding so fast she wondered if she should summon one of her uncle's maids. How to explain such a dream to anyone? How to explain it to herself? With shaking fingers, she lit the candle at her bedside and piled her pillows high, stretching up against them, hoping to still her quaking body and distraught mind. Gradually, as the candlelight glowed brighter, she became quieter and pondered what
she'd seen. She'd been there— whatever had taken place— she'd been there. And so had Hurst. She was sure of it. Just as she was sure that for the remainder of the night, sleep was out of the question.
Early the next morning, Chloe, her Uncle James and young Richard set out for Cuddington. The portrait was complete, and Bartholomew Penn was instructed to find a suitable frame and deliver it at Cuddington within a few days.
The road they traveled into Surrey was worn with the passage of armies, hunting parties, peasants and fanners. The professional highwayman still made unexpected appearances, and her uncle had hired an armed escort. Their passage, however, was uneventful-much to young Richard's disappointment—and Chloe had time to speculate on her dream. Unlike other dreams, it hadn't faded with the arrival of morning or the bustle of their departure. She reviewed it all, deciding she possessed an overactive imagination that had been aroused by her mother's letter with its sad news of Father Felix's death.
Hours later all such thoughts were swept from her mind, for she recognized familiar landmarks. They were on Cuddington land. "I know the way from here!" she shouted to her uncle and, spurring her horse, waved for the group to follow. They pounded over the meadows, kicking up the barren earth that had not yet frozen, vaulting quickly over the sluggish streams that ran engorged with freshets in the spring. Quickly, through the deep forest that lay north of the manor house, and there, at the vaultlike opening at the end, just at the tip of the slope, lay her home. Still her home for a few more days. She pounded up the rise, shouting to whoever might be near and was relieved to see a crowd gathered in the courtyard. Calling and waving as she approached, she saw her father, expectant and happy, dismount and wait for her. Clattering into the courtyard, she flung herself into his arms and with tears of happy relief saw her mother and Thomas emerge from the kitchen wing.
"Darling! Chloe!" Her mother wrapped her in strong arms. "Darling, you are so welcome—we've missed you so." Choking back the tears, Chloe again embraced her father as Thomas clasped her hand. The rest of the group joined them, and amid the exchange of pleasantries, Chloe's eyes traveled to Thomas' sandals. Bits of mor-
tar and dirt clung to them, but he seemed oblivious as he welcomed James Cuddington. She looked at her father's boots. He'd made an effort to clean them, but mortar still adhered to the heel and along one side. Again that feeling of nausea clutched at her as she remembered her dream. It must be true, she thought, it must be true. But how could it be?
It wasn't until she saw another figure emerge from behind her father that she knew it was true. For there was Hurst, wearing the same garments he'd worn in her dream and bearing that same indefinable air of evil authority. Her mother whispered that he no longer worked at the manor but was now employed by the king's surveyor as a laborer. He was smiling at her in just the same way he'd smiled in her dream. Suddenly, as he drew nearer, the dream and reality merged, and without knowing what was happening, her hold on her mother's arm loosened, and she slid to the ground unconscious.
The following day Bartholomew Penn arrived at the manor house with the portrait, and everyone crowded about to see it in its handsome new frame. "It's a great success, Master Penn, and we must celebrate," Sir Richard said, ordering a servant to bring wine. "You're to be congratulated—I am very pleased."
The servant arrived with the wine, and Richard handed everyone a glass, even young Richard. "After all, lad, it was your idea," he said, smiling at Penn. He'd been most impressed with the young artist's integrity, particularly his effect on his nephew, who spoke of nothing but Penn's work and how he himself wished to be such an artist when he grew up. Glasses in hand, they all moved away to view the portrait from a distance.
It was young Richard's sketch brought to luminous life. It compelled one's attention by the sheer virtuosity of the artist as much as the sitter's radiant beauty. Every color—the gown, Chloe's pale hair and dark winged brows and eyes—each complemented the whole. Penn had wrought each piece of furniture with superb craftsmanship; the lustrous colors of the Turkey carpet were warm and glowing. Sunlight lingered on the jewels and lay along a sleek border Penn had painted about the neckline. Young Richard had never recovered from the artist's dexterous rendering of the ermine which was nonexistent on the actual dress, telling everyone, "He painted it just as if it were there!"
James approached the canvas, wineglass in hand, to look at the little portrait within a portrait which had been Penn's contribution to Richard's sketch. It was almost uncanny the way he'd caught the Cuddington House facade down to the last detail. From a distance, it was an impressive addition, but viewed more closely, remarkable. Even the animals on the family crest were clearly identifiable. Through the windows on each side of the doorway, the sunlit interiors were visible and rendered with minute skill. The perspective was striking.
"It's certainly a great success, Master Penn," he told the artist. "It's very beautiful and you've given us much pleasure."
Penn beamed at James' comment. The portrait had become very important to him; he knew it to be one of his finest works. He'd developed a warm camaraderie with young Richard and had shown the child many little tricks with brush, charcoal and pen which Richard had quickly assimilated. As for Chloe, he'd found her company very pleasant once he'd recovered from the awe which her beauty aroused in him. He knew her to be sensitive and understanding and felt, instinctively, that she liked him. Yet there was some part of her that was unapproachable, as if she were deliberately withholding any opportunity for an emotional response that might encourage him. Most girls her age would have flirted or played the coquette; she seemed virtually sealed against any advances he might make. Aware as he was of the difference in their rank and the trust her family had reposed in him in leaving them unattended for long periods each day, he'd said nothing to give her any hint of his feelings. Therefore, he knew that on this visit to Cuddington he must explain how he felt; otherwise, she'd soon be off to Suffolk and out of his life fo
rever.
Bartholomew Penn was also much on Chloe's mind as she moved about the rooms on one of the last days at the manor house. Everywhere inside there was emptiness, and outside a ravaged wasteland: trees, shrubs and other growing things had been uprooted, and clumps of earth and sod tossed into random piles. She'd almost made up her mind to ask her father to have Penn paint portraits of himself and her mother; it would mean he'd go to Suffolk with them. It could mean the start of a new life for her. Probably she'd never see Thomas again, and that part of her which would always be his would go with him. What was left she must give to someone;
Penn seemed a kind and gentle person. He was obviously attracted to her—it would take little effort to have that attraction ripen. Her parents might wish someone more grand for her. But theirs had been a love match, and they'd never force her. If she wanted Penn, she did not think her parents would object.
Walking near the fishpond, deep in thought, she saw Thomas coming along the road from Merton. He, too, would soon be leaving for London, and she knew they'd likely never see each other again. Ever since her return, she'd wanted to talk with him and tell of her dream. Her parents had attributed her fainting to the long ride and the shock of Father Felix's death. She'd never questioned her father about the bits of mortar on his boots. But she knew she could talk to Thomas, and she sped quickly down the road, calling his name.
The monk waved and smiled at her approach, and Chloe's heart melted as it always did whenever Thomas was near. He'd donned a new robe and fresh sandals and carried a cloak against the chill he'd encounter on the walk home. His tonsured hair was neat, and he swept her a deep bow. "Has Master Penn arrived, Mistress Chloe? I've come to see the final result. Also to bring the Lady Elizabeth this Book of Hours which the monks made especially for her." He held up a little book with gold-edged parchment leaves. "I've also come to say good-bye."