by Mary Luke
waiting would meet with firm recriminations, and the stories ultimately died down. She said that Chloe must do as she wished at Nonsuch, but she must not deprive her of her company. So Chloe came and went as she pleased—avoiding the spots which held too much heartache and possible danger—for all the years she spent at the palace.
But if this bothered my darling, she gave little indication. She remained her loving and sweet self, winning over many friends at court. By that time her cousin Richard had grown to manhood and, under my tutelage, gave every indication of becoming a superb artist. This pleased her very much; she almost looked upon the lad as a child of her own. When her Uncle James passed away, he left the house to Richard, who insisted we continue living there.
It was many years later that she told me of Queen Catherine's Lure. I think she had a premonition perhaps that her time on earth was limited, although there was more than a year left to us. I well remember the night at Sparwefeld as she was lying in my arms and, in the sweetness of the moment which still makes my heart ache to recall, she told me the story of Father Felix's burial and of the Lure. I then understood her interest in the wine cellar.
I write now of my darling's end. It is only two years since this has happened, but the wound is still fresh in my heart as her beauty and goodness are still alive in my mind. It was a peaceful end, occurring when my darling had not quite attained her fiftieth year. No one would have guessed her age, for that silver hair remained always beautiful and her face was virtually unlined. Her figure was that of a girl. It was her beauty as much as her spirit which made the queen like to have her around, for Elizabeth's beauty depended more on artifice and habiliment, and she always insisted on being surrounded by rare beauties.
The queen's doctor who attended my dearest wife was never able to tell me exactly what she died of. She was not ill very long. It was almost a spiritual languor, a slow wasting away of her spirit as well as her will to live. She took to her bed in our room at Cuddington House, lamenting that she was too weak to go to Sparwefeld. Once more, she said, she'd like to see a Surrey spring, but we had to be content with the greenery of Durham House yard and the South-wark shore. Often I carried her to the summerhouse in the garden in the back and we'd watch Richard paint or I'd work in the flower beds. She was so light in my arms.
At the end she seemed to run a slight fever and lay in our bed, her hand so thin and almost transparent. She spoke of the past, of the beautiful Surrey hills surrounding her home and how she and a boy named Thomas had ridden over the land which would one day be hers. "It was a lovely time, Barto," she'd say. "I've been a most fortunate woman. I've had Thomas, and you . . . and the queen. Always I shall remember you all . . . and my parents . . . and Domino." Her parents had long since died and left their estate to Richard, who also inherited the title. "He'll have children," Chloe had said. "He should have this house and Ixworth and Spar-wefeld." Shortly after the queen had come to the throne, she made over Sparwefeld to the Cuddington family for ever, which had much pleased Chloe. There was a ceremony in the throne room to which the whole court came. "We Tudors are a grasping lot," Elizabeth had said in that strong clear voice as she handed Chloe a parchment from which dangled the royal seal, "but we can be giving to those we love." And as she embraced my dear wife, both had tears in their eyes.
But I return to the last scene. It was twilight, and though she was comfortable, my wife's face was more flushed than usual, and I persuaded her to take a little wine. I held the glass to her lips, and she lay back on the pillows, that beautiful hair spread in disarray such as I'd seen it in our more intimate and loving moments. "Barto. . . . You are so kind ... so kind," she whispered, "thank you for loving me." She turned her face to the wall and I sprang to grasp her by the shoulders, almost willing that she not leave me. She turned to me, her dear face almost smiling. "You must let me go, dear. We cannot hold on sometimes to what we love. We must let love go." Again her eyes closed, and she seemed to sink in my arms. And then something happened which strains belief, but I do not lie. She seemed to give a great sigh, almost as if her soul were leaving—or being taken—from her body. She lay passive and still, and I thought she had left me. Tears were pouring from my eyes onto her cheeks, and perhaps their gentle wetness revived her. But I think not. It was something else, and it was not of this world.
I do verily believe she had almost left her body when, suddenly, her eyes opened wide. It was like a miracle, but I realised at once it was not this world she was gazing upon—it was the next. And her expression was wondrous! "So beautiful," she whispered, "so beautiful . . . such light ... it almost hurts my eyes. Oh! Oh! I cannot
believe it to be. . . . Oh, it is! Oh, Thomas, I'm coming. . . . Wait, my darling!" Her thin arms seemed raised almost in benediction, and I realised she was opening them to receive someone. For a moment my mind did not grasp the import of her words. Thomas? It had been well over a quarter of a century since that tragedy; rarely had he been mentioned. And suddenly, 7 knew. I watched her sadly. Her eyes closed as if in great joy, as if the glory of the scene facing her were too much. Her thin arms clasped around her body as if she held someone to her, and then, quietly, she simply stopped breathing. I knew then she was gone. But wherever she was, she was not alone. This was a great consolation to me.
There is no more to this story. Except that this woman I loved— seen here on this canvas in the first flush of her maidenly beauty— who was dearer to me than life itself, must always be protected. I have wrought her beautiful body with paint. There is no way to protect the beauty of her soul, except to explain those incidents of a long-ago time, one now almost forgotten, when her name was besmirched with foul accusations, of which there was not one iota of truth. This portrait, which hung at Nonsuch for a time when the queen was there, was returned to the family at Chloe Cuddington Penn's death. Elizabeth ordered the whole court into mourning and took to her bed for days, so bereaved was she by my darling's passing. Now that it is mine again, it will surely pass to future generations of the family, for Richard, I am sure, will have many descendants. So I write this story as it actually happened—and secrete it well—for the time when my wife's name may again be assailed with false innuendos. It is the truth from one who was there.
Bartholomew Penn
September, 1568.
(Chapter ty[ineteen
The room was quiet as Timothy laid the last parchment sheet on the table and looked out the window. "And now, Andrew, we really know," he said softly. "That was quite a fellow your Chloe picked for herself." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. "Quite a fellow."
As Timothy read, Andrew's eyes had been on the portrait, while his mind was busy evoking Chloe throughout the remaining years of her life without Thomas. He felt depressed and saddened; he looked almost haunted. "Tim, what would be the word for it? Soul mates? That sounds overly dramatic to me. Yet certainly Thomas remained her great love, but Bartholomew seems to have made her happy—in his way."
"I think—no, I'm sure— that Chloe and Julian-Thomas were soul mates. We have to use that for want of a better word! They were destined to be together." Timothy paced around the room. "But we all have free will in our lifetime on this earth. Thomas chose the church. Then the Lure was placed in his care. Lastly, Hurst interfered in their relationship, becoming violent towards the end. Everything stood in the way of the realization of their love. Julians life was cut short just when he could have been with Chloe. That force at Nonsuch—the Hurst force, whatever you want to call it-seems to have been compelled by the power of Chloe's curse to remain there . . . forever. Just as she said, lonely, exiled, damned to hell and utter isolation, waiting only to exert that murderous energy whenever the spirit of Julian-Thomas was near. Twice he won—by killing. But you were too strong for him, Andrew. That exorcism
broke the curse and sent him . . . somewhere. If it's freed you, it's also freed him. There was a Karmic link between you, Chloe and Hurst—perhaps a carryover from a previ
ous lifetime we know nothing about—that's lasted over four hundred years. High time it was broken! Four hundred years may seem a long time to us, yet it's nothing but a second as time is counted in the infinite. It's taken that long to bring about this retribution for Hurst and, let's hope, an opportunity for you again. With someone named Chloe. . . ."
"That's what kept occurring to me before we read Bartholomew's wonderful 'Defence.' God, how I myself would like to have met the man! Thomas knew what he was doing when he urged Chloe to accept him." Andrew's mind was still filled with the tremendous tale Timothy had read.
"The only reason—the only reason I can now see for your being brought here, Andrew, is that you are finally to meet your young lady. Or it might have been predestined that you perform the exorcism of Hurst. He had 'served his time,' shall we say, and was fated to be released. But it's all over now—there's nothing to keep you from searching for your girl." He rose, glancing at the portrait as he did. "She shouldn't be difficult to recognize if you see her," he said dryly as he let himself out the door.
Andrew picked up the parchment sheets to tie them together again. He'd show them to Rosa Caudle in the morning and arrange for a new frame for the portrait. Tired as he was, however, he wrapped the Lure carefully in its red velvet and returned it to the little box. And then, drawn to the sheets again, he sat down to read once more Bartholomew Penn's moving words of his life with the wife he'd adored.
The following morning, while shaving, Andrew tried to recall his frame of mind when he'd arrived in England. Was it only a month ago? What an arrogant, self-centered, shallow ass he'd been! Sleep had been difficult, for parts of Thomas and Julian's taped words kept recurring. Their memory of making love to Chloe—who'd returned their ardor with such passion—had kept him tossing and turning. There had to be a meaning to this whole incredible experience, and what was it worth if it didn't bring him into contact with the same radiant creature—one who'd give some meaning to his life? For he now recognized his incessant traveling, his insistence
on all his creature comforts, his selfish approach to women had been nothing but an escape from facing the reality that there wasn't one particular person on earth who meant a great deal to him.
The thought was still in his mind as, briefcase in hand the Lure safely in his pocket, he left the room, deciding suddenly to descend by the stairway instead of the lift. Just as the Cuddingtons did so many years ago, he thought. Slowly, walking down the wide stone stairs, he wondered: How many times did James, Chloe, Richard and Bartholomew use these very stairs? Dusty now, few people ever came that way. And what room had she died in?
At the foot of the stairway, he noticed the little plaque with the history of Cuddington House on the wall. Taking the lift each day, he'd hardly noticed it after the first reading. Now he glanced at it again, noting how each little item tallied with what he and Timothy had learned in the last several weeks. Was it only weeks? He felt he'd lived a lifetime and then almost laughed outright at the thought: he had lived several lifetimes! Then, suddenly, words leaped out at him. "In exchange for the Surrey property, Sir Richard Cuddington was given the manor of Ixworth in Suffolk, where he died in 1567 and where his descendants still live today."
Andrew felt as if he'd been hit by a thunderbolt. "And where his descendants still live today." Of course! There it was—plain as anything could be. He could have seen it daily for more than a month but had noticed it this morning only because he'd taken the stairway. That had to be it. It was his—and her—last chance.
Suddenly, he knew. With that calm elation he now recognized as certainty, he knew that at Ixworth he would find a beautiful, slim, silver-haired creature named Chloe Cuddington. . . .
Andrew bounded to the desk, the Lure jiggling in his pocket Rosa Caudle smiled at his inquiry. "In Suffolk, sir? Well, I'm sure I don't know. You see that branch of the family and this—well, we've had no communication in years. It's been a long, long time, sir-before I was born! They stayed up in the world, and the Cuddingtons at Sparwefeld and here—they've always had to work for a livin', sir. No, I'm sure I wouldn't know anything about the Suffolk Cuddingtons. I never even thought about them, truly." Then she smiled at Andrew. "I know what you're thinkin', sir. It just might be! Why don't you give it a try? I'm sorry I didn't think of that my-
self . . . that resemblance. It's a shame we've let the relationship die, sir, but that's the way it is. Way back, of course, the families were close, and we're all sprung from the same seed, but they'd be very different from us today, sir, Harry and me."
Andrew leaned across the desk, astonishing himself, and kissed Rosa loudly on the cheek. "Rosa," he said, watching that delightful pink cover her face, "if I find in Suffolk what I think I'm going to find, I don't think there will be anything different from the young lady upstairs—and she won't think you're all that different eitherl She probably doesn't even know there are Cuddingtons here."
Rosa clasped his hand. "Good luck, sir! And bring her back here if you do. . . . Oh, wouldn't it be nice to see her... for real?"
Within the hour Andrew had rented a car from a Piccadilly showroom and was en route to Ixworth. Once outside the mainstream of London traffic, he gave himself up to the beauty of the English villages, lunching quickly at Bury St. Edmunds, directly across from the high monastery gateway. He thought how Thomas would have loved it. Continuing his journey, he reflected: what are you going to do when you get there? Barge right into her home and say, "Where is she?" What'll you do when you see her—confront her with the whole story? At which point she'll probably call for help, think you're a lunatic and have you tossed outl
Two hours later Andrew passed a small sign, ixworth. No longer a village, he noted, but he could see the remnants of its village days. The Market Cross was still in the center, and cheek by jowl with later Georgian and modern buildings were several black and white Tudor dwellings. Built by the time Sir Richard had arrived, he was sure. Straight ahead was the King's Head, with the stern, unrelenting face of Henry VIII swinging on the signboard. Andrew realized how thirsty he was. And disheveled. If he hoped to meet his Fair Lady of Four Hundred Years, he might need a bit of what Rosa Caudle called "freshening up."
Moments later, combed and washed, he stood at the bar savoring a pint of ale and a generous plate of sandwiches. He asked the barman the way to the manor house.
"Sir Richard's? Right down the street, sir, turn right—down the next right—out a bit along the river. Then you'll see the wall which
goes along the front. Bit built up there now, sir, but you can't miss it."
Andrew thanked the man, paid his bill and left. He felt better for the food and drink, yet he'd never been so nervous in his life. Catching sight of himself in the car mirror, he almost laughed aloud. His brow was drawn in anxiety and—perplexity? Well, he consoled himself, you're on an unusual expedition, the most remarkable you've ever had! It was a comfort that he didn't feel foolish, only certain.
Following directions, he drove slowly down the street, wondering how Richard, Elizabeth, Chloe and Bartholomew Penn had felt the day they'd come this way for the first time. The roadway was, obviously, what had been the main road then; there was no place for any other. But instead of a paved roadway with the usual traffic signs, a pub and a tearoom, what would they have seen? Beautiful open country. As he drove along, in between houses and shops, he could see vistas of fields, large clumps of trees, a stream that might once have been a river—it would all have been Cuddington land. Four hundred years had made a difference, and as the barman had said, it was a little built up. Somewhere, sometime, someone had had to sell some land. He felt better for the thought. A title was enough to combat; he didn't wish Sir Richard to be Croesus also.
Ahead was a small church, in essence pure Norman with later commendable additions. Andrew felt that strong urging he'd learned to trust to go inside. He parked the car and, ducking his head as he went under the low doorway, entered the musty building. It was larger and brighter than
he'd expected and, luckily, empty. Straight ahead was an imposing monument—a large stone white angel, standing almost on tiptoe, its vast wingspread silhouetted against the stained glass window, dimmed by the dust and pollution of the roadway outside. Beneath the angel he could see three burial plaques, their ancient brasses worn with time and, he suspected, rubbings which the curious had taken for permanent relics. One was imposing. A man, curiously familiar, and a small, lovely woman, both in Tudor dress, knelt facing each other, their hands clasped in prayer, their robes arranged gracefully around them in eternal alabaster. Andrew looked at the man's face. It was square, with a deep cleft in the chin, with sharp, winged brows over wideset eyes. Chloe had surely been her father's child. Andrew read the inscription:
Here lieth buried the bodies of Sir Richard Cuddington, Lord of the Manor of Ixworth after the suppression of the Abbey which he had of a conveyance from King Henry VIII in exchange for his Manor of Cuddington, now called Nonesuch, in the County of Surrey, and his wife, Elizabeth.
Andrew could not decipher the dates; he'd been away from his Latin too long. His attention was further drawn to the two adjoining vaults and brasses.
Here lieth Chloe Cuddington Penn, cherished wife of Bartholomew Penn, born May 10, 1516, died September 6, 1566, at Cuddington House in London. Beloved child of Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth Cuddington.