The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

What a nuisance, Laurence thought, on his way out of Oxford. As soon as he had arrived at the Lamb Inn, he had run into Wilmot and Danvers, both of whom he had known abroad. They had asked if there was any truth to the rumour that he had narrowly escaped being hanged for desertion last winter. He had laughed it off, and was called away conveniently by Ingram, but the question would be posed again. Danvers had insisted on meeting up with him at a different tavern, towards early evening.

  As for Ingram’s new friends, Laurence recognised in Corporals Blunt and Fuller a certain cast of soldier: brave, simple, and slavishly loyal to their senior officers. Sir Bernard Radcliff he read less easily, though he was puzzled that Ingram could be so fond of the man, with his inquisitorial grey eyes and chilly demeanour. Yet Radcliff might be well suited to Kate Ingram. Laurence had only met her once when she was sixteen, and while undeniably beautiful, she had seemed to him a proud, spoilt girl. He had taken no more to Radcliff today, and the needling reference to a prior commitment to the Secretary of State still bothered him. He had scolded Ingram afterwards for being so indiscreet, and Ingram had sworn it would not happen again.

  With some hours to spare in the afternoon, Laurence decided to visit Diana Stratton, to learn how she was faring, as an old and dear friend, and to see if she had changed over the years; any more than that, he did not admit to himself. If Sir Robert were home, which might preclude any frank conversation with her, Laurence would say he had come to present his father’s greetings and leave as soon as he could. Then he would return to town and share a jug with Danvers, and call on Seward late, when he would be sure to find him at Merton.

  Northwest of the city, on the border of Wytham Wood, Laurence asked a girl picking berries in a hedgerow for directions to the house. She stammered them out so fearfully that he had to strain to understand her. Annoyed, he rode on. Just a few weeks back in England, he was already beginning to tire of the effect his looks had on most people.

  Stratton’s house was an old, timbered mansion, standing in an apple orchard surrounded by a wall of weathered Cotswold stone. As Laurence approached, he heard the shrill cries of children at play. He reined in his horse and peered over the wall. A fat, cheerful woman was sitting in the shade of a tree with two small boys playing about her, picking daisies and tossing them into her lap, while she threaded them into chains. When she observed Laurence, she gave a start, and the boys clung to her, regarding him with wide eyes.

  “What do you want?” she shouted, struggling up and pressing them to her side as if he were about to snatch them from her and devour them whole.

  Such concrete evidence of Diana’s motherhood stirred in Laurence a vague apprehension: she might not welcome his visit at all. “Is Sir Robert Stratton at home, madam?” he inquired.

  “And who are you to ask?” When Laurence gave his name, she said sharply, “Stay here,” and herded the children from the orchard and through the front door of the house, shutting it firmly behind her.

  He dismounted and waited, kicking a pebble about in the dust, tempted to disappear. Then the door opened again to reveal another woman, younger than the nurse, and pretty. She dropped a curtsey, examining him from beneath her eyelashes. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said, “the master is away, I am afraid, but the mistress will see you. Pray come in.”

  The woman guided him into a parlour where he found Diana arranging some flowers in a vase. She had on a gown of blue that matched the colour of her eyes and set off her fair skin and blonde hair; and she looked to him as lovely as before. She bade him good day and gave him her hand to kiss as though he were, as indeed he was, a distant relative. “Such a long time since we have seen you, sir,” she said, in such a way that he could not guess whether she was being cautious or genuinely indifferent. “His lordship your father and her ladyship must be so very grateful for your safe return.”

  “Are you in good health, Lady Stratton?” he asked.

  “Excellently well, thank you.”

  “And Sir Robert?”

  “He is well, also, though preoccupied these days with the war, and how it might affect his trade. He is in town, negotiating a contract. I do not expect him home early. Thank you, Margaret,” she told the other woman. “You may go.”

  Margaret obeyed, closing the parlour door.

  Immediately Diana threw her arms about Laurence. “Beaumont,” she whispered, “why did you leave me without even a note, nothing to explain your absence! I cried for weeks and weeks afterwards! And now I can’t believe my eyes! Here you are, my sweet lover, come to find me!”

  “Diana,” he began, taken aback as much by this wave of emotion as by her eagerness to rekindle their affair, “I only came to see how –”

  But she would not let him speak, kissing him with violent force. Then she rushed over to the window and drew the curtains. “Make love to me,” she said, hurrying back to him. “Margaret will keep guard for us.”

  “We can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?” Her expression altered. “Don’t tell me – are you – were you hurt in that terrible war?”

  “No!” he replied, nearly laughing; was this everyone’s concern?

  “Do I not please you any more? Have I lost my looks?”

  “Far from it.”

  “So make love to me,” she urged, searching beneath his doublet to caress him.

  For the briefest moment he forgot himself, enjoying her touch. But as she started to unbutton the doublet and unlace his breeches, he moved away and took her hands in his. “Diana, I’m here on a friendly visit. I wanted to find out how you were.” She gazed up at him, frowning. “Look,” he persisted, “I’m sorry, all those years ago, that I couldn’t tell you I was leaving. Even if I’d stayed, it wouldn’t have been wise for us to continue our … our meetings.” Remembering his conversation with Ingram, he added, “I wasn’t thinking of the consequences for you. It was very selfish of me.”

  “As though I hadn’t a mind of my own! I desired you, Beaumont, and I desire you now.” She grabbed his arm, trying to drag him to the door. “We can go into the woods, if you’re afraid we’ll be discovered!”

  “No,” he told her, gently detaching her fingers. “You must understand, it’s finished. But I was hoping we could still be friends.”

  “We were always friends, Beaumont,” she said desperately. “Loving friends! Why should that change?” And she kissed him again.

  Suddenly they heard Margaret’s panicked voice outside the door. “Sir Robert is home, my lady! He’s riding into the courtyard!”

  Thank God, Laurence thought, as Diana at last released him. “I do apologise most sincerely for everything,” he said, aware that this was an inadequate parting speech. “Goodbye, Diana.”

  She did not speak, but only stared at him, so he bowed to her and walked out.

  III.

  After a tiring day in the city, Sir Robert Stratton desired only a quiet meal with his wife. He was therefore irritated to ascertain, upon dismounting in the courtyard, that they must have a visitor, for an unfamiliar black stallion was tethered there, twitching its withers and stamping its slender hind legs. Then the front door opened and a man exited hastily, though he stopped short when he saw Stratton.

  “Mr. Beaumont, such an unexpected pleasure!” Stratton declared, with a bow. “It has been many years since we last met. I must thank you for calling on us, sir. Surely you are not about to leave just as I arrive?”

  “Yes, you must excuse me, Sir Robert,” Beaumont said, in a subdued tone, fumbling with a lower button on his doublet. “I have an appointment in town.”

  “But you must be late for it and share a glass of wine with us,” Stratton said, thinking what a contrast there was between this new Beaumont and the lounging, impudent rascal who had once graced their London house. Those years abroad had taken their toll on him: the sauciness of privileged youth was altogether gone from his manner, and instead he had the air of a fox run to ground.

  “No, I – er – I can’t, I’m afraid.”

/>   “Then I pray you will come back on another occasion.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Beaumont said, untethering his horse.

  “And do me the favour of greeting his lordship and her ladyship, when you are next at Chipping Campden.”

  “I shall, sir. Good day.”

  And with that, Beaumont mounted and galloped off.

  “Well, well,” murmured Stratton.

  When he entered the house, Margaret greeted him in a high, flustered voice.

  “Would you be so kind as to bring me a light repast,” he told her, taking off his cloak and handing it over. “I have not eaten since breakfast and cannot wait for supper. Where is her ladyship?”

  Margaret hesitated. “In … in the parlour,” she said eventually, as though revealing some dread secret.

  Stratton was perturbed to find his wife collapsed in a chair, her shoulders quivering. “What is the matter?” he asked, as she rose to face him. “It’s not about Lord Beaumont? Has he come to some mishap? Is that why his son was here?”

  Like Margaret, she did not answer at once; and he had a sinful thought, about Lord Beaumont’s will, and how he might benefit from it. “No, Sir Robert,” she said tremulously. “Mr. Beaumont was merely paying us his respects.”

  “I see. My dear, you have been crying. Is it your time of the month?” She shook her head. “Come to table with me.”

  He ushered her over, and they sat in silence until Margaret arrived with a dish of pickled artichokes decorated with little slices of fried bread. She set it before them, along with a pitcher of barley water and glasses, and left.

  “Have a morsel with me,” he suggested to his wife. “It will put the colour back in your cheeks.”

  “I am not hungry,” she said, inspecting the vegetables as though they were laced with poison.

  “Then I shall eat for you.” Between mouthfuls, he commented, “How remarkable to see Mr. Beaumont again. Though I hardly exchanged a word with him, I think he is greatly altered, would you not agree?” She did not respond. “He must have got his just deserts while in the army,” Stratton went on. “The rigours of such a life would prove a severe test for someone like him.”

  “Why do you say that?” Diana inquired faintly, serving him barley water.

  “Because he was no more than a pampered brat when he left. He had all the fortune in the world before him and an excellent marriage prospect, yet he tossed it aside. All he cared for at the time was to game, drink, and fornicate with whoever would have him.”

  “Sir Robert!” she gasped. “What do you really know of him except idle gossip?”

  Stratton speared an artichoke with his knife. “I am sad to inform you that it is not idle gossip, my dear. So often you do not see people for what they truly are. At Court, for example, some of your friends were very ill chosen. That scheming, conniving Isabella Savage for one. And did you know that bets were openly exchanged amongst the men as to how many of the younger wives they could seduce? Beaumont was probably one of the worst of those blackguards.” Diana’s mouth began to wobble as he finished speaking. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded, setting aside the knife.

  “Nothing,” she said, as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “If it’s not your health that ails you, there must be some other cause! My poor girl, perhaps you should rest for a while, and we shall speak when you are calmer. Margaret!” he called out. “Help your mistress upstairs.”

  As he watched Margaret take his wife from the room, he remarked to himself how like little children women were, with their mysterious moods and fits of weeping. He must write to Lord Beaumont about his heir’s return, he mused next. It might provide another excuse to visit Chipping Campden. He was rather intrigued to talk to the son again, and discover whether the changes in him were as much internal as external. But such a look on Beaumont’s face when they had met, as furtive as that of a thief caught red-handed! And the fellow could not wait to escape.

  Stratton froze, an artichoke halfway to his mouth. What if Beaumont had not changed? Could he have made some impertinent advance upon Diana? Stratton knew that many men admired her beauty, though she was always oblivious to the attention of others when he pointed it out to her. Sweet creature that she was, she had not a guileful bone in her body. In her very innocence, however, she might have encouraged Beaumont unwittingly. And how insulted she would have been by him, how utterly aggrieved, exactly as she had appeared today. Stratton felt disinclined to raise the issue, lest he insult her more. He would talk to Margaret, instead.

  IV.

  “Oh, Margaret,” said Diana, as her gentlewoman applied a cooling cucumber poultice to her swollen eyelids, “I know you disapprove. You think me a bad woman and a dishonest wife.”

  “My lady, it’s he who is to blame. And when you first told me about him, you said you wouldn’t forgive him for vanishing as he did. What happened to your resolve? Think of your family, of your position in society! Would you jeopardise everything again, just for a tumble?” Diana sighed and reclined on her bed. “It is not just that.” “It would be no more for him. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he considers all women fair game. He has a most degenerate face, and those eyes of his made my skin crawl. If I were you, I should never have let him near me. But my lady,” Margaret said, in a lower voice, “are you sure that Sir Robert never guessed about him?”

  “If Sir Robert had, he would have confronted me,” Diana assured her, sniffing. “You know how he fears the slightest hint of scandal and is always so keen to impress others. Indeed,” she concluded, beginning to weep again, “it was his very eagerness to flaunt his noble connections that first brought Beaumont to our door.”

  V.

  In the summer of 1635, after she and Sir Robert had been married some eleven months, he expressed a wish to call on Lord Beaumont, a kinsman whom he had mentioned with pride on many occasions. “I have heard that some sketches by the artist Van Dyke, to whom his lordship is most partial, have just come up for sale,” he went on. “I should be doing his lordship a favour if I alerted him.” They would pass a day or so at Lord Beaumont’s house in Chipping Campden, he told her, and then travel south to their property at Wytham.

  Towards the end of their journey, as they drove up through the park, Diana was awed by the palatial dimensions of Lord Beaumont’s residence, built in a style far more modern than their London home, and when they were welcomed in, its owner charmed her instantly with his warmth and utter lack of affectation. She had to wonder whether he or his Spanish wife was most responsible for the continental atmosphere of the house, from the grandiose canvases and statues that decorated it, to the silver forks with which they ate their food at dinner.

  And as they ate, she tried not to stare at Lady Beaumont, with her chiselled profile and those extraordinarily luminous eyes; and such a graceful figure, clad in a tailored gown that made Diana’s seem positively unfashionable in comparison. Her skin was not sallow, as Diana had expected, but golden in sheen, and her natural expression, enhanced by her long, straight nose and the slight flare to her nostrils, betrayed all the proud disdain for which her countrymen were celebrated. In her speech, however, no discernible foreignness could be heard, except for the odd soft consonant.

  Her eldest son, Laurence, was apparently away in London. The younger boy, Thomas, a youth of about eighteen, greeted Diana bashfully, while the two little daughters were less shy, and chattered away to her until they were sent up to bed. On the following morning, Robert discussed the sale of Van Dyke’s work with Lord Beaumont, who had already commissioned a portrait from the artist and was most anxious to buy the sketches. Robert, pleased to act as agent, insisted on putting up the money himself upon receipt of the art, to be reimbursed at his lordship’s convenience.

  Diana heard no more of it for a number of months. They retired to Wytham, where she moped about the dark, timbered rooms, dreaming of the Palladian splendour of the Beaumont house and yearning for city life. Then Robert announced an a
lteration in plan to suit them both: they would move back to London in late August. Lord Beaumont’s sketches were about to be sent, and the man selling them must be paid.

  “I really don’t see the value of such unfinished studies,” Robert said, as they were unwrapped in the parlour of their London home. “Van Dyke will prove merely a passing fashion, as is so frequently the case with popular artists.” Diana wished to contradict him, for she hoped to be painted by the Dutch master, who had complimented her and her friend Isabella Savage at Court. “Why did I turn down that letter of credit when his lordship offered it to me,” Robert added, and she was tempted to laugh. He had wanted to appear gracious and offhand about a sum that staggered him and left him short.

  A few days later, they were entertaining friends to a light supper of winkles, ale, and a joint of beef when the servant told her that there was someone calling for Sir Robert. “I didn’t let him in, my lady, because the fellow looks a rough sort,” the servant explained. She said that she would go with him to attend to the visitor and excused herself, glad to escape a boring conversation.

  As she opened the door to the half-light of dusk, she saw a tall man slouched against the wall outside. He turned, and she gasped at his uncanny resemblance to Lady Beaumont. In his face, however, she read a different expression, indolent and sensual. He had dark circles under his eyes, as if he slept very little, and he was unshaven and carelessly dressed. No wonder the servant had been suspicious of him.

  “You must be Lord Beaumont’s son,” she exclaimed. “How can you forgive us our rudeness? The servant – oh dear – he did not know.”

  Mr. Beaumont smiled at her, and she no longer saw his mother in him, for the smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth and lent the sweep of his brows an impish air. “Oh, it’s not his fault – you weren’t expecting me,” he said, as if he had known her for years. “I came with some money, from my father.”

  “Have you eaten, sir? We are just sitting down at table.”