‘I didn’t recognize you then. Not for months. I dreamed about you. I could hear your voice in my dreams – strident, strong, taunting an armed criminal; the voice you are using now – but I could not recall your face or even remember your name. It was maddening. But I didn’t try to find you. I knew that you were married. I had never seduced a married woman knowingly. You must believe me, Caroline, when I saw you in that coach house, just another woman, frightened and alone, all I wanted was to help you. I was drawn to you without any ulterior motive other than to protect you. That should have been the first time we met.’
The silence lay between them, the weight of it choking her. Finally, she found her voice. ‘I have much to be grateful to you for, James. I thought you were a good man. Exemplary in compassion and resourcefulness. I suppose in some ways you are. I could overlook the gambling by telling myself that it was a game, a sport that men played with each other. But now I am questioning your good sense, your character, your judgment.’
A ghost of a grin returned. ‘That’s why you would be such a good wife for me, don’t you see?’
But if he meant it to be disarming it was not.
‘No man is all good, Caroline. I don’t pretend to be better than I am, but with you I can be better. It was important to me that you knew the worst. Doesn’t that count for something?’
‘William was so humiliated to think he could not protect his wife. He could hardly look at me.’
‘I will confess, I regretted it as soon as I saw the lightness of his purse. I had reasoned that he was probably some incognito nobleman. Anybody out on that lonely road with a crested coach would be a fool. I misjudged the target.’
‘Target. That says it all, doesn’t it? He was just a target. Not a person. A target.’
The ring lay on the table between them. He picked it up, fondled it almost lovingly.
‘The ring was a good piece. Your husband had good taste. But I couldn’t sell it. I wanted to keep it for some reason that I didn’t even know. I think it was because that was the day I fell in love with you.’
The bell on the door jangled in the silence between them. Ben came in with a gust of wind, shaking off the rain. ‘Surprised to see the two of you still up …’
‘We were waiting for you,’ James said. ‘Did Mr Milton give his blessing?’ His voice sounded flat and tired, lacking in the passion with which he had just made his declaration.
‘Sort of. His biggest concern was for himself. No surprise there. He wanted to know if Patience could stay long enough to train a new girl. I told him he’d better get two to replace her,’ he said, going over to warm his hands by the fire. ‘Feels more like January out there than November.’
‘I am happy for you, Ben,’ Caroline said, standing up, giving him a little kiss on the cheek, ‘really happy. It is late, and I am suddenly very tired. I think I am going on up.’
As she stood up, James slid the ring across the table. ‘Don’t forget this, Caroline. It would be a shame to lose it twice,’ he murmured.
DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP
I most willingly leave this world being very weary at my very heart of the vanities of it, and my own sins many and great, and of the grievous destruction of the Church of Christ almost in all parts of Christendom, and particularly in this kingdom.
William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, upon the imposition of his death sentence by Parliament’s bill of attainder
January 1645
Winter in Paris was not easy for Henrietta. Cold seeped into the walls of the palace and into her bones, bringing boredom and fatigue. At a dimly lit stone altar each dawn (how she missed her glorious chapel, with its Rubens paintings and glittering candelabra), like some ancient cloistered nun, she prayed the Hours of the Virgin: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. The prayers for Prime were followed by Matins and Lauds and throughout the day, ending with Vespers and Compline. Her prayer book, her treasured illuminated Horae, had belonged to her mother, a gift from Cardinal Richelieu when they were on better terms. Being little used by Maria de’ Medici, its jeweled binding was scarcely worn at all.
After each Ave and in between the proscribed prayers, Henrietta beseeched the Holy Mother to imbue her husband with the wisdom she feared he lacked and, in tearful petition, to protect her youngest children, left behind in England without father or mother to protect them.
She prayed also for Lucy Hay. Henry and Elizabeth’s welfare, and mayhap their very lives, depended on her former friend’s loyalty and resourcefulness. She prayed too for Anne Villiers, Lady Dalkeith, who still was caring for little Minette. Sometimes Henrietta’s arms ached from wanting to hold that child to her breast. She had been the hardest one of all to birth, and somehow that made her more precious. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. The Virgin knew that ache.
Edward Hyde had written assuring her that the children were well and still being cared for by their guardians, whose names he wisely did not write. ‘Lord willing,’ he’d said, ‘and Parliament’s consent, it should not be long before Lady Dalkeith can bring the child to France to join her mother and her brothers.’ Henrietta suspected he’d thrown in the bit about Parliament, implying permission would be sought, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. She had to concede that she might have been wrong about Edward Hyde. He was now her only link with her children, and she was beginning to trust him. What choice did she have?
In her misery, the Queen shunned the company of her favorites, weary of Lord Jermyn’s huddled conversations with Henry Percy, their secretive whispers and sober faces, too quick to put on false smiles and feigned cheer whenever she appeared, as if they were all enjoying a jolly holiday away from the fray, as if across the channel her husband’s kingdom was not tearing itself apart. Jeffrey’s foolishness became so offensive to her in his silly disregard for the war in England that more than once she had shrieked at the dwarf, banishing him from sight.
Only good news from England could lift the pall that had settled over her spirit. But there had been no real news of late, good or otherwise. Not since Newbury. Charles’s letters had become infrequent and shorter, just a few lines assuring his ‘dearest heart’ that he sorely missed her but that, despite having sustained losses at Newbury because of the treachery of the Covenanters, he was confident that the loyal Scots in the North would rally in support of their King. As to the defeat, he blamed the ‘cowardly’ Earl of Newcastle more than he credited parliamentary forces. The tone of the letter did not bode well – it was as if saying everything would turn out as he wished it would make it so. This was a characteristic fault in her husband that she had long dealt with, but this time she was no longer there to manage it.
Henry Percy had said he’d heard that the Earl of Newcastle ‘fled the field.’ Henrietta had no love for the general, but he was not a coward and had proven himself to be an able commander. With some coaxing he could be brought back. She had written Charles, advising thusly, but he did not answer. Since that time there had been one brief message at Christmastide, containing no real news, saying only that because he was in the field it was harder to write. A veiled warning to her that he was shutting her out? That he no longer required her advice? That did not bode well for the House of Stuart.
‘Lord Jermyn, has there been no message again this week from the chancellor? This is the fourth week. They have all gone strangely silent. I feel our correspondence is being intercepted – or worse …’ But she could not voice the worst, could not even allow herself to think it.
‘Nothing, I am afraid. But don’t worry, Your Majesty. Bad news rides a swift horse. I am sure everything is going well, or we would have heard even without the chancellor’s reports. Many in France would cheer bad news from England, and I have heard nothing in the taverns. Will you dine with us tonight? We miss your company.’
When she did not answer, he tried to tempt her out of her mood. ‘We can bring in your favorite court musician. He is beginning to need the practice. The King would not want
you to worry yourself into ill-health.’ Then he added softly, ‘Nor do I.’
But even his entreaties did not move her. ‘The King should write and tell me that himself,’ she said. ‘I will sup in my room tonight. If any messenger should come, seek me in the chapel or my chamber, no matter the hour.’
Lucy Hay had never witnessed an execution and, having grown into womanhood with the threat of the dreaded executioner’s axe within her family, had no wish to. That she had not attended Thomas Wentworth’s was a cowardly act of which she was ashamed. In her darkest moments she had wondered if he had searched in vain for her face in the crowd that horrible day. That thought haunted her. The last words she had spoken to him had been the hollow reassurance when she had visited his Tower cell, that everything was going to be all right. The same last words Charles had given. But Lucy would have moved heaven and earth to make those last words true, while Charles Stuart would not even use his royal prerogative.
On the day that the frail old archbishop met his maker, Lucy took Princess Elizabeth to visit her tutor in the Strand, where Bathsua Makin was recovering from an ague at her home. The girl had badgered her for two weeks, begging Lucy to take her to see the most learned lady in England, saying she was falling behind in her Greek and Hebrew, until finally Lucy gave in, thinking: What could it hurt? If the woman was too ill to see her precocious royal pupil, they would just leave. At least it would stop the girl’s nagging. And there was one errand Lucy had been planning in London.
The tutor looked frail but seemed pleased to see her royal pupil and dismissed Lucy summarily, telling her to come back in three hours. Three hours. In London. In January. With dirty snow lining the gutters, and none but the most desperate souls hazarding the slick streets. Little past nine bells. Whatever was she to do for the other two? This was no longer the London of thriving shops and pretty store windows.
‘Where to, my lady?’ the coachman asked, his words muffled by his thick wool scarf.
She fingered the clasp on the tiny embroidered purse. ‘Goldsmith’s Row, Cheapside.’
The creaking of the carriage wheels echoed forlornly. No other soul was in sight in one of the most celebrated shopping districts in all of Europe. Cheapside market had been a source of pride for Charles Stuart. More than a decade gone, he had ruthlessly banished all who hawked cheap jewelry and recruited the most skilled artisans and saw that the guild regulated them to the highest standards. But the war had exacted its due here and the few shops still in business were curtained.
She leaned her head out the window and shouted, ‘There. Stop there.’
The driver pulled over. No glittery merchandise brightened the window, but the curtain was partially drawn, and the sign of the jeweler’s little golden hammer was clearly visible. Thomas Simpson’s sign. She knew him. He had once made a counterfeit piece for her that even she thought must surely be real.
She exited the coach carefully since there was no footman. She could not really blame the coachman for not stirring his blanketed legs. ‘Wait here,’ she shouted over her shoulder. She tried the door, but it was locked. Peeping through the half-drawn curtain into the darkened interior, she saw no movement. A stiff wind stirred the fur trim of her hood as she pounded on the door and called out. At last she heard the latch lift and Simpson himself appeared in the doorway.
‘We are not open today,’ he said, and started to close the door in her face.
‘Please, Master Simpson, just a short consultation. We have done business before. I have come a long way.’
He opened the door just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Shutting the door behind her, she threw back her hood and gave him her brightest smile.
‘I shan’t take up much of your time, though I will confess that I am surprised to find you not open for business.’
‘Not a good day for doing business. Only drunkards and riff-raff abroad on such a day.’
How was this day different than any other? she was wondering, when he said, ‘I remember you, Lady Carlisle. It has been awhile. I am afraid my merchandise is much depleted. Not much market for fine gems these days – even counterfeit.’
‘I am not here to purchase. The war has beggared both my need for fine jewelry and my capacity to afford it – a reordering of priorities, as I am sure you can understand. If you would be so kind as to indulge me, I simply wish a moment of your time for an expert opinion.’ When he didn’t immediately answer, she flashed him a smile. ‘Please. It will only take a moment, I promise.’
He frowned and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse, then he said with a frown, ‘A moment only. Now, how may I be of service?’
She pulled the little embroidered purse from without the pocket of her mantle and fished for the contents. The jewels lent their light to the dim interior of the shop. ‘I wish to know if these are genuine or if they are imitation,’ she said, handing him the earrings Thomas Wentworth had given her before he died.
He took them over to his desk and looked at them for a long moment through a small round glass. ‘They are genuine. The diamonds are from India and, frankly, my lady, I have not seen any that might surpass them in clarity.’ He handed them back. ‘I cannot give you an estimate of their value in such uncertain times. In England they would not bring what they should. In Paris or the Netherlands perhaps. The Dutch still have a thriving trade.’
‘What if you broke the diamonds up into their singular stones? Would they be easier to sell? I would like to keep the two emeralds for myself. Perhaps in a plain gold ring.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘The smaller stones perhaps would find a ready buyer – the two pendant cuts would be harder because of their value. But, Lady Carlisle, I would strongly advise you not to do that. They are much more valuable as they are. The workmanship of the setting is exquisite.’
‘I cannot wear the diamonds in these uncertain times and, frankly, good sir, it would give me peace of mind to have their value in ready coin – except for the two small emeralds,’ she repeated. They were the color of Wentworth’s eyes.
The jeweler examined the earrings again then looked back at her, pausing as though weighing something in his mind. ‘I have many clients who share your reservations about the value and safety of their belongings. They have made certain arrangements with me for their safe-keeping.’
‘What sort of arrangements?’
‘May I have your word that you will keep our conversation private?’
‘Certainly. I am the keeper of many secrets.’
He smiled. ‘I can well imagine,’ he said. ‘It is a simple arrangement. Some clients deposit valuables with me for safe-keeping: gold bars, guineas, ducats, precious objects, jewels. Many of the owners are out of the country for various reasons. A few are off on the battlefield, some in exile, and some just feel that their more valuable and portable goods are safer on deposit. It gives them a certain peace of mind against marauders, thieves, looters, confiscation.’
‘Deposits? Is such business legal?’
‘It is sanctioned by the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, though the practice is not commonly known. Again, I am trusting your discretion.’
‘Be certain of it, sir, if you will grant me the same. It would do me no good service if my possession of the diamonds should be noised about. But still, it gives me pause to leave them with you without some surety.’
‘You will have surety. I give you a certificate of deposit with my signature as a guild master and a description, approximate value, and quality of the items deposited. You may draw against that amount at any time, should you desire. There is no redemption fee. You simply present your certificate.’
‘Please don’t take offense at my skepticism. I am a simple woman. What if you should die, what claim would I have?’
‘Or abscond with your diamonds? In the first unfortunate event, you need only present your document to the Goldsmiths’ Company to claim your jewels. In the second, you will be compensated by the guild, and I will be hunted down an
d hanged.’
It sounded a little like a scheme to her, but she could see the appeal. ‘If I may have some time to think about it.’
‘I understand.’ He smiled at her knowingly. ‘You are a “simple woman.”’ He handed her back the diamonds. ‘Perhaps if you saw the place where your diamonds would be kept? I have a safe vault in my cellar. Would you like to see it and what others have given into my safe-keeping?’
He went to the back of the small showroom and motioned for her to follow, seemingly having forgotten that he had no time for her. ‘My work room is down here.’ He opened a door and she could see down into a daylit basement. Beneath the leaded window that fronted on the alley was a workbench littered with bits of metal and a tiny pick and hammer. On one side lay a half-strand of pearls with a clasp of lapis. On the opposite was a wall of shelving containing jars of shiny bits of metal and small colorful stones – most of them semi-precious. He turned his back to her and, as if by magic, the wall of shelving shifted to reveal a sturdy oak door with iron hinges. Taking a key from around his neck he unlocked it. A creaking of hinges and she was staring into a small windowless stone chamber that smelled of stale air.
Drawers, with numbers scrawled on the face of each, lined one whole wall. On a table immediately to the left was a table covered with a threadbare damask cloth. He held his lantern high and drew back the cloth to reveal gleaming gold and silver utensils: candelabras, candlesticks, goblets set with rubies and pearls, bowls of inlaid rock crystal, heavy gold chains, each item tagged with a number that she assumed corresponded to the heavy ledger bound in leather and chained to the wall.
‘What a fantastic hoard. But I don’t understand. There is tremendous responsibility here. A lot of work just keeping up with it all. Where is your profit from such an endeavor?’
A Far Horizon Page 23
