A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

‘And not much else.’ He drained the last of the wine. She refilled both glasses. ‘What about you, my lady. Have you ever been in love?’

  She laughed. ‘Several times. But that breathtaking, full-of-giddy-dreams fever – only once. I was very young too. And already married to James Hay.’

  ‘You did not marry for love, then?’

  ‘No. I married to get out of Tower Prison where my old father insisted I share his incarceration. James Hay was a means to an end. I never loved him. Though I liked him. I am in no way complaining. James Hay was much older than me, the old King’s ambassador to the Continent, and he was gone a lot, leaving me to my own entertainments. He gave me freedom, a life at court, and a title. When he died, I mourned. It was like losing a kind patron. I have survived on the courtly graces and necessary cunning that he taught me.’

  ‘Survived very well, I would say. This young lover, did he break your heart?’

  ‘Into tiny little pieces,’ she laughed. ‘And he wasn’t even my lover, though we flirted: a lot of dancing and groping in closets, a little kissing; all very exciting and causing a lot of court gossip. But I’ll have to say, Lord Whittier, looking back he was not as good a kisser as you.’

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw him flush with embarrassment. And well he might, given his performance.

  ‘He broke a lot of women’s hearts. It was rumored even the Queen of France succumbed to his charms when he went over to arrange for the marriage between Henrietta and Charles. Though I think it was probably no more than a flirtation, because in his heart he preferred the King. And when old King James died, then he preferred the son.’

  ‘You have aroused my curiosity. Was your young lover the notorious George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham?’

  ‘You knew him? You were scarcely more than a boy when he was assassinated. I would never have mentioned him, if I thought you knew him.’

  ‘I only knew of him. It has long been rumored that he was the old King’s catamite. Rumored too that he poisoned the King because he preferred the Prince. Do you think the rumors true? I mean, you obviously knew him well.’

  ‘True that he was a catamite?’ She shrugged. ‘A little old for a catamite. He was twenty-one when he first caught the eye of a King. And I was not the only woman who found him irresistible that first year he came to Whitehall. He was an Adonis. But it was no secret at court that James Stuart adored him.’

  ‘Do you think the rumor true, that Buckingham poisoned his King because his eye wandered to the son?’

  She shook her head. ‘Never. Buckingham’s enemies and Charles’s enemies fostered that lie.’ She was surprised at the vehemence with which she defended him after all these years. ‘George was mad with worry when the King became ill. He truly thought the royal physician vile and incompetent. That was why he shut him out and dosed the King himself.’

  ‘What about Charles? Was he also seduced by his father’s lover?’

  ‘That is also a vicious lie. George Villiers was a kind of mentor to the young Prince. More like an older brother. Though not altogether in a good way. They did get up to some mischief in Spain before Charles married Henrietta. But no. I am sure of it. Charles Stuart adored Henrietta. To this day he is devoted to her. They have enough children to prove it.’

  Suddenly feeling uncomfortable with this line of conversation, she gave him a hard look. ‘Why are you so interested in old court gossip? You are not going to put this in one of your news books.’

  ‘I was only interested to see what kind of man could break the heart of a woman who could have any man she wants.’

  ‘Well not all,’ she said archly, taking another sip of wine. ‘You know, it has been my observation that sometimes … when a man is besotted with a particular woman … he is sometimes slow to respond to another.’

  She could see from the expression on his face that her words pinched.

  He was suddenly very serious. ‘Besotted? In your experience, do you think it possible for a man to become besotted or enamored of a woman whose name he does not know and with whom he has had only the briefest encounter?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, thinking that she had cut close to the bone and relieved to have found a probable cause other than her own fading charms.

  ‘Do you believe that the face of said person, even the sound of her voice, could haunt a man’s dreams? If I believed in witches, I would say I have been bewitched.’

  ‘And I would say, you are in love, James.’

  ‘How can a man be in love with a fantasy? I only had two brief encounters with the woman, the first of which I am ashamed. I cannot even remember her name. Though God knows I have tried.’

  ‘This fantasy, as you describe it, obviously has a hold on you. There is only one way to find out. You must seek her out. If she is only a romantic dream, then you will find it out soon enough. But if she be real, you do yourself no good service by trying to bury her beside the dead love of your youth. Go back to the place you met her. Ask if anybody knows your mystery woman.’

  A late afternoon sunbeam sent a shaft of light through the window, picking out the now empty wine glasses.

  ‘Thanks for the advice. I will think on it. I will. But I have been thinking of going away. There is nothing left for me here.’

  ‘But your printing business is thriving, is it not?’

  ‘Not for long. Parliament is forcing out free printers. Just like the Covenanters are forcing out free thinkers. We are merely exchanging one tyranny for another. Catholic, Anglican or Presbyterian, pick your poison – doesn’t matter what name you give it. It’s still tyranny that deprives a man of the right to his own soul.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. Far away from kings and parliaments. Maybe to the colonies.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You in a Puritan colony? They would have you in the stocks before you even got off the boat. And if they didn’t, you would drown yourself in the Atlantic out of boredom.’

  He gave her a look of mock astonishment. ‘You don’t think they have taverns? And pretty ladies?’ Then his tone turned serious. ‘I met a man who is starting a free plantation. Freedom of speech. Freedom of conscience. A man can believe or say what he wants to believe or say. A radical experiment, to be sure. But it would be an adventure. There is not much to hold me here.’

  ‘Except your mystery woman.’

  A lift of his shoulders and a nod. ‘Except my mystery woman.’

  ‘Is that why you came here today? To bid me goodbye?’

  ‘That. And to pay you my sincerest condolence for your loss. But I also came to return something that belongs to you. Now that your uh … circumstances have changed. And with the war … well, who knows how that will turn out? Depending on who wins – though I will admit you have played the middle better than most.’

  Smiling, he reached into the pocket in his jerkin and pulled out Wentworth’s diamonds, the same diamonds she had donated to the Royalist cause two years ago. He held them up to catch the sunbeam, as she had held them up to catch the candlelight in her long-ago salon. Seeing them again took her breath away.

  ‘You didn’t really mean to give these to Charles Stuart, did you? After the way he betrayed Thomas Wentworth?’

  ‘What? How did you …? You were there that night. I remember. You were there. And you left right after Councilor Hyde …’ A sudden shock of realization and she laughed, ‘And Councilor Hyde was robbed.’

  ‘Did the King know he was robbed?’

  ‘Oh yes, Hyde is nothing if not astute. He told the King. He wanted Charles Stuart to know how hard he was trying to raise funds. He even wrote me a note explaining about the robbery and assuring me that he had told His Majesty, who was “very moved” by my gracious understanding and loyalty.’

  ‘Good enough then. You got credit and now you have your jewels back. They are much too beautiful to be used to fund a war. They were given in love and should not be stained with blood.’

  �
��But why give them back to me? Especially now? You could have used them to buy your passage to Utopia.’

  ‘I have other resources. Anyway, I never intended to keep them. I got enough from the melted plate, which I stole at the same time, to buy the press I wanted. I decided to give them back to you because we, who are forced to live by our wits, deserve not to be robbed by each other.’

  ‘But James, you know I dare not wear them again.’

  ‘Not here, not now. But you will have them like an ace hiding in your sleeve. You can always sell them if necessary. Your brother’s fortunes are tied to Parliament. Your cousin Essex’s too. The House of Percy could lose all. If the King wins.’

  Then he stood up brusquely, like a man who had accomplished what he came for. She followed him out and, as he took his leave, she reached up as if to kiss him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. ‘You know, Lord Whittier, highway robbery is a hanging offense.’

  He put his forefinger to his lips and whispered, ‘But you will never tell.’

  ‘Not even if they rack me,’ she said. And she meant it. ‘One more thing,’ she said, putting her hand on his sleeve as he opened the door, ‘find that woman you told me about. Does it not say somewhere in the Bible, “Man was not made to be alone?” Go find your Eve, James. Maybe you can take her with you into the wilderness.’

  A pan of potatoes in one hand and a skillet of bread in the other, Caroline used the crook of her elbow to push her straggling hair back from her forehead. It had been a difficult day in the guildhall kitchen. The March drizzle and wind whipped down the flue of the makeshift stove, scattering smoke and ash. The Scots soldiers had complained about the half-roasted potatoes, though they didn’t blame her. They were boisterous and noisy, and she sometimes had trouble understanding their thick brogue, but all in all they were kinder to her than the English officers had been, thanking her, calling her ‘bonnie lass.’ She was grateful for even the difficult days because she had a roof over her head and she shared the same food the soldiers ate. Provisions in the market were exorbitantly priced. The Committee for Three Kingdoms made regular delivery of foodstuffs that were mostly unavailable for the rest of London.

  She stirred the recalcitrant coals once again and was bending over to place the last pan of potatoes in the oven when out of the corner of her eye she saw the one-armed soldier approaching. Probably one of the several disabled from the war who had learned that they could share the leftovers from the soldiers’ mess.

  ‘I am sure to have something for you today,’ she said without looking around, ‘though you will need to wait a bit. I can give you some bread and broth if you cannot wait.’

  ‘I didn’t come for the food,’ the voice behind her said. At first, she didn’t recognize it. Then he said her name. ‘Caroline?’ It was low with a little break in it.

  She almost dropped the pan, managing just to shove it in the oven, yet afraid to turn around, for fear it was an illusion – like other tricks of her imagination, the hearing of a voice she longed for or a shadow out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘It’s me, Caroline.’

  She turned around then, heart pounding. ‘Arthur? Is it really you?’ Her breath caught in her chest when she noticed the empty sleeve. She grabbed hold of him, crushing him in an embrace. Only one arm hugged her back, but it was not a boy’s arm. It was a strong arm that pulled her tightly to a man’s muscled chest.

  When she pulled back, she ran her fingers along the line of his face, as if to reassure herself that he was not a mirage. He touched her face, too, smiling as he wiped at the track her tears had left.

  ‘I went home looking for you. When I didn’t find anybody, I went to Forest Hill. They told me …’ He choked and could not finish.

  ‘I am so very sorry you had to find out about your father’s death that way.’

  ‘It was my own fault. I should never have stayed away so long. I should have been there for him. For you. They said you tried to find him …’ His voice trailed off.

  She waited for him to gather his emotions.

  ‘The farm is not the place I remember. It is a very desolate place. And Forest Hill is not much better.’

  ‘I know. But I have been assured we will all be made whole when the King wins the war.’ As if you, who have lost a father and more, and I, who have lost a husband, could ever be made whole. But she did not say that to him. The young needed hope.

  ‘When? If he wins the war,’ he said.

  ‘You are still on Parliament’s side, then?’

  ‘Nay, I’ve seen too much cruelty and suffering on both sides. I’m on nobody’s side except mine and yours and maybe …’ But he let his voice trail off again and then said, ‘I went by the townhouse. Looks like it’s been overrun with Scotsmen. They told me you would be here.’

  He put his one strong arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

  ‘I want you to know, Arthur, how hard I tried to find your father.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. He hesitated, shuffling his feet, unable to look at her. ‘I should have been there to help you. They told me how brave you were and how you worried when I didn’t write. That’s just one of the many things I regret. Like the way I left. The harsh words between Father and me. I can never take those words back.’

  ‘It is all right, Arthur,’ she said, touching his face, lifting his chin so his gaze would meet hers. ‘William grieved your leaving, but that’s only because he loved you so much. He wouldn’t have wanted to let you go, no matter whose side you were on. He knew his son loved him.’

  That wasn’t exactly true, and she knew it. But she knew too, if William could see his son now, he would forgive both the lie and the boy.

  ‘I reckon his death happened about the same time I lost my arm. Father and son broken by the same war at about the same time but on opposite sides.’

  He picked up the corner of her apron to wipe her tears away and, seeing that it was almost as smoke-stained as her face, he laughed, an awkward, choking laugh, releasing some of the grief made new by the sharing. ‘Hey, what do you say if I unstop that flue for you?’

  ‘Please,’ she said, grateful to be diverted. It was such a relief to see him, and yet it took her to a place she had tried so hard to shield her mind from. If she ran fast enough, drove herself into the ground with worrying about all the daily chores of just surviving, her mind was too exhausted to remember all that she had lost.

  ‘Let me retrieve the potatoes first. I’ll peel them and drop them in the broth pot to boil,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the iron pot hanging over the hearth. ‘They will have time to cook before the stragglers come in,’ she said. ‘The afternoon patrol shift comes in just before dark.’

  ‘Guess it would be best to wait until the coals die down, so we don’t smoke up the place more. The Worshipful Company of Mercers won’t be happy if we blacken their pretty paneling and gilded girders. All right if I sit here?’ He pointed to a stool in the corner.

  As the potatoes cooked, she listened with a mixture of horror and grief at all he’d been through. He told her about how the war had wounded more than his body, about how a young mother, her wits totally gone, haunted his dreams as she cradled a doll in her arms. How in his dreams he could still hear her singing in her gentle voice, lulay, lulay my little child to her dead infant. He told her too how he had seen men blown apart, about how he wound up at Bart’s without really knowing how he got there. But he’d never had to kill anybody, he said. That was a blessing.

  When he grew quiet, she knew he had gone to that place where men who were not meant to be warriors, unlike others who thrived on the thrill of the fight, always went. So, trying to pull him back, she prompted, ‘You went to Forest Hill, you said. Were Squire and Ann and the children doing well enough? How is Mary?’

  ‘Pretty as ever. Though changed. All grown up, I guess. She said to tell you not to worry. That they have enough to eat and a roof over their heads. And they are all still hearty. She said you sh
ould just look out for yourself. You will always have a home as long as they do, if you need to return.’

  ‘I left because I thought I might be able to help them. But it is all I can do just to keep a patch of roof over my own head. I’ll not go back. I don’t want to burden them with one more mouth to feed. Squire and Ann have been so good to me, taking an orphan in at thirteen, treating me like their own.’

  ‘Don’t feel burdened by any debt to the Powell’s, Caroline. Squire was good to you. But they got the better end of that bargain. Mary was so much happier after you came. She never enjoyed her siblings like she enjoyed you, though we tolerated the young ones. When you made us. What fun times we had,’ he sighed. ‘As to your being a financial burden: you know Father paid Justice Powell for your upkeep? Right up until he married you and you came to live with us.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know.’ That was a little unsettling but not altogether surprising. ‘But, Arthur, he did not pay them to love me. They were the only family I had after my aunt died. I will always love them and be grateful to them.’

  ‘Still, Richard Powell got the best of that exchange. He always had an eye out for a shrewd deal. Even Father said that.’

  She remembered the sad, tired man she’d encountered shortly before she left, despairing over the state of his finances, and she could feel no resentment for him, except for his betrayal of Mary: that was some shrewd deal too.

  ‘Did Mary tell you she was married?’

  ‘She told me plainly,’ he said, ‘just blurted it right out. But, Caroline, Mary is not happy. And no wonder. Her husband may be brilliant, but I find him pompous as a peacock. Very demanding and full of himself. Not a pleasant man at all. Squire should never have pushed her into a marriage like that.’

  ‘No. I agree. It was a shrewd deal gone sadly awry for everybody concerned. You talk about John Milton as though you know him.’

  ‘I have only made his acquaintance on two occasions. That was enough. I know him mostly by his writing, which I find offensive. I work for a printer who published some of his work.’

  He paused, as if about to go on, then looking troubled said, ‘Caroline, have you read any of John Milton’s work?’