The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “Yes. But I’m not sure Falkland would like that. I asked him to come up here with me to see you and he refused.”

  Isabella gave her hard little laugh. “He thinks I’m not respectable. Fair enough, we’ll find some neutral territory that suits everyone concerned.”

  “I can discuss the details with him tomorrow. Then I’ll come straight to you in Oxford.”

  She clapped her hands together. “At last! The end of Colonel Hoare!”

  “Digby will be pleased,” Laurence said, to see if it would provoke her.

  “We shall all be pleased,” she rejoined evenly, settling herself on the bed. Then she kicked off her shoes and smiled at him. “What a very good thing it is that Falkland did not accompany you. Because he’s right about me. At the moment, I do not feel in the least respectable.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Come here, Beaumont.” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and they both fell back against the coverlet. He was almost on top of her. Their mouths met, and their tongues. She seemed in no hurry, which excited him even more. “Now,” she told him, in a low whisper, “take all the liberties you want with me.”

  “On your command,” he said.

  He moved away to lift her skirts, hoisted her legs over his shoulders, and bent his head between her thighs. She tasted clean, like a courtesan; he had always found that it was the upright woman who avoided soap and water, as if virtue were a sufficient guarantee of hygiene. “Yes,” she hissed, as he licked the rise of her flesh, and down, and around, until it became silken with moisture. When he applied his tongue more firmly, she tangled her fingers in his hair, and spread wider for him; and she shuddered against him. “How sweet,” she murmured. “I want more.” He was about to comply when suddenly her legs became rigid on either side of him. “Stop!” she ordered him.

  He extracted his head from the warm tent of her skirts, brushing his hair out of his eyes only to see Lady Morecombe in the open doorway.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in a sepulchral tone, “what are you doing?”

  “Madam,” he responded, after a brief pause, “if you truly have no idea, I believe your husband’s been neglecting you.”

  “My husband has been cold in the grave these past seven years!”

  “Oh,” said Laurence. “I’m sorry for that.”

  She remained motionless, staring. “I was told that you had to speak with me.”

  “It seems you’ve been misinformed.”

  “I shall call off the betrothal! Your father shall hear of this, and your mother! The entire neighbourhood!”

  “The whole world, if you choose. Now would you please leave us alone?”

  Lady Morecombe snorted angrily, and shut the door on them with a bang.

  “Dear me,” said Isabella. “Were you meant to marry that woman’s daughter?”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to any more.”

  She burst into peals of laughter so spontaneous and genuine that he joined in; and for a while they both lay helplessly convulsed on the bed.

  “Beaumont, how you amuse me,” she gasped, “but perhaps it would be wise for me to disappear.”

  “No.” He jumped up and went to bolt the door. “We won’t be interrupted again – though I’d like to know who sent her up here,” he added, throwing himself back on the bed.

  Isabella began to unlace his breeches. “Well, well,” she said, lifting his shirt to caress his sex with practised fingers, “let’s find out what you can do with this.” And she drew him inside her.

  How superior was experience to innocence, he thought, as she moved her hips in harmony with his own, alternately squeezing and releasing him; and occasionally she would pull away to tease the tip of him before plunging him deeper again. Then her body arched towards his, and he looked into her gold-flecked eyes. “Now!” she exclaimed, and obligingly he timed his release with hers.

  “I wish we could be naked, skin to skin,” she said afterwards. “These clothes are a nuisance.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “What did you tell Lord Falkland about me?” he said next, on impulse.

  “That he should trust you.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  He loosened her dress and lowered it beneath her breasts, so that if he would not see her naked tonight, he might at least explore as much of her as possible; and there was nothing to disappoint beneath her clothing, no inadequacies cunningly concealed by a talented seamstress. Ready for her again, he felt as if he might make love to her for hours, watching her expression to see what pleased her. But when she gripped him fiercely, her breathing harsh in his ear, and with a finger artfully placed, drove an intense thrill through his body, he could not contain himself.

  “How fine that was,” she sighed. “A pity I can’t stay here all night.”

  He withdrew from her, regretfully, and when she sat up, he fastened her dress. Her hair had come loose of its pins, so he knelt behind her and restored it neatly, as the women at Simeon’s house had taught him. “Such unexpected skills,” she remarked. “I should hire you for a chambermaid.”

  They heard a babble of voices growing louder, and then the thunder of feet up the stairs and past his door. “Sounds like a herd of cattle,” he said.

  “Yet another bedding.”

  She stepped into her shoes as they listened to masculine cheers and the shrieking of female voices. Gradually the noise became more distant.

  “It should be safe for you to slip out,” he told her.

  She pulled on her cloak as he opened the door and checked in both directions. “Fear not, Beaumont,” she said, giving him a light kiss, “I shall have everything arranged, you may depend upon it.” She ran a finger along the side of his neck. “And you must explain these teeth marks, at some future date. I am almost certain that I did not put them there.” Before he could speak, she was gone.

  In a buoyant mood, he changed into his old clothes, loaded his pistols and bundled them in his cloak, then ran downstairs, where he found Geoffrey sweeping a floor littered with broken glass.

  “These people,” Geoffrey complained, “they can’t hold their liquor, and we must clean up after them in all corners of the house. And Lady Morecombe just took her daughter and left with her suddenly, we don’t know why. Who’d want to go out so late, and in this foul weather?”

  Some men now came roaring down the stairs. Tom was amongst them, red-faced but not as drunk as the night before. “Laurence,” he cried. “How was she? Boys,” he called to his friends, who gathered around him, “he just had a woman in his chamber. I’ll bet she’s a juicy piece and wouldn’t object to another tumble. Is anyone game?”

  “Be quiet,” said Laurence, realising who had inspired Lady Morecombe’s unsolicited visit.

  Tom seized him and twisted him about, sending his pistols clattering to the floor. “You’ve dishonoured our family!”

  “Enough, Tom.”

  Tom paid no attention. Unsheathing his sword, he pointed it at Laurence’s chest. “Arm him,” he snapped to one of his friends, who pulled out a rapier and thrust it at Laurence. “Take it, or I’ll run you through,” Tom shouted, pressing in his own blade, piercing the fabric of Laurence’s doublet.

  “Go on, then, if that’s what you want.” Laurence laid a hand on the blade, as if to push it further in.

  Tom’s expression changed from fury to incredulity. In that second, Laurence yanked the blade from him, threw it away, and punched him twice. Tom’s head jerked back and he collapsed.

  “No more entertainment for tonight, gentlemen,” Laurence said to Tom’s friends, who shambled off.

  He and Geoffrey lifted Tom into a seated position and propped him against the wall. He was dazed, with a bloody nose and another trickle issuing from the side of his mouth.

  “What cowards,” Geoffrey muttered. “Not one man dared stop him.”

  “You’d better fetch some cloths and hot water,” Laurence suggested.

  “Y
ou’ll need more attention than Master Thomas, sir.”

  Laurence looked to see the palm and fingers of his right hand bleeding freely. Making a fist, he crouched down beside Tom. “What possessed you to do that? If you have an argument with me, settle it privately, for God’s sake, and not in our father’s house.”

  “What about you, bringing that whore under his roof?” Tom demanded scornfully. “You’re worse than a whore yourself.”

  They were silent until Geoffrey brought what was needed. As Geoffrey mopped the blood from Tom’s face, Laurence wrapped up his own hand, then picked up his cloak and pistols, bade a quick good night to Geoffrey, and made his way to the stables. His cuts were bleeding through the bandage once he had finished saddling his horse, and he rode off dreading what might await him upon his return. His mother would have words for him, he knew, but he was more concerned about how the fight would upset his father.

  At Great Tew, after waking the servants, he was received by Falkland’s wife in her dressing gown. “Mr. Beaumont, what brings you out at such an hour?” she asked, her face taut with anxiety. “It’s past three in the morning.”

  “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Lady Falkland, but I have to see your husband.”

  “He is not here. He left as soon as we came back from Chipping Campden. A messenger had arrived with an urgent summons to fetch him to Oxford.”

  “What was it about?” Laurence asked, her alarm infecting him.

  “He did not tell me. Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, as she saw his hand, “you are hurt.”

  “I’ll have to find him,” Laurence said, thinking that if Falkland had come upstairs with him to meet Isabella Savage, there would have been no scandal and no fight. At the same time, however, he could not entirely regret how events had transpired.

  “Let me change your bandage,” Lady Falkland insisted. “Come into the parlour, sir.” He waited there, his hand aching more sharply, while she sent for a basin of water and clean linen. “You should not ride such a distance,” she said, as she unwound the soaked cloth. “It will only aggravate the bleeding.”

  “I’ve no choice. Do you have anything for the pain?”

  She exchanged a word with her servant, who went away and came back with a cup and a small, corked bottle. She pulled out the cork and poured a few drops into the cup for Laurence; it was not poppy, but some other, sour-tasting stuff. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said after he had drunk it down, “my husband does not often confide in me about matters of state, but ever since he came home he has been so agitated. What could be troubling him?”

  “You must ask him yourself.” While she dressed his hand, the cuts began to throb. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take some more of that,” he said, reaching for the bottle.

  “Sir, it’s very strong,” she protested, but he swigged down a mouthful.

  “May I keep it with me?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, though be careful – what you have had is quite sufficient.”

  He stuffed the bottle inside his doublet, and she accompanied him out to his horse. As he mounted, he noticed that she was holding back tears, and he extended his good hand to grasp hers. “Now don’t worry too much about your husband,” he consoled her.

  “I cannot help but worry! He must have told you about our two young sons – I only pray he will see them grow to manhood.” She sniffed and added, “Oh, dear, sir, you would not understand; you have no children.”

  “Well, in fact, I’m not altogether sure about that,” he said, with a smile.

  She also smiled, weakly, and released his hand. “Thank you for your concern. And give him my love when you find him.”

  IV.

  In the shimmering waves of heat on the horizon appeared a massive coach and four, with armed soldiers riding postillion at either side. At first Laurence took it for some chimera of his imagination, since the glare of the sun was making black spots dance before his eyes. He blinked, but saw it again, moving closer. As the coach slowed in front of him, he reached for Juana, who had been standing by his side. He touched thin air. She had vanished, and the soldiers were raising their pistols to train them at his chest. He wanted to move or cry out, but his limbs were frozen and he could make no sound. Then a dark, malevolent face appeared through the coach window: Khadija’s.

  “Ayúdame! Help me, help!” a voice screamed, and he realised that Juana was also in the coach, struggling to escape as Khadija held her fast by the wrists. Still he was paralysed, unable to come to her aid. She howled and shrieked, crashing her body against the walls of the coach so violently that it rocked to and fro, but Khadija seemed possessed of infinite strength and would not let go.

  As suddenly, Juana fell silent. The coach ceased to lurch about, and Khadija smiled, with unmistakeable triumph. “This witch will trouble you no more,” she told him, fixing him with her penetrating gaze. And the coach sped off.

  Her words must have released Laurence from the enchantment, for now his limbs had the power to move. He tore after the coach, and at last he caught up and grabbed on to the window frame. The driver’s whip lashed out at his hand; and in the same moment he saw inside the coach. It was empty. He felt shock, and a sharp sting as the whip sliced again into his flesh; then he knew that the pain was real.

  He opened his eyes and looked about, completely disoriented until he recognised the hangings on Seward’s bed, upon which he was lying fully clothed.

  “Finally you are awake,” said Seward, coming in. “You’ve slept for over ten hours.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “Habit must have guided you, for you were almost insensible when you arrived.”

  Laurence squinted at him. “When was that?”

  “You stumbled in about midday and fell on my floor. I spoke to you, but you were incoherent, and then unconscious. What on earth was the cause of it?” Laurence felt for the bottle in his doublet with his left hand, and passed it to Seward, who sniffed at the contents. “Belladonna may be one of the ingredients – dangerous in any quantity. Let me see your other hand.” Seward unwrapped the bandage; it was dark with dried blood and glued to the cuts, which began to burn and bleed as they were exposed. “How did you acquire these injuries?”

  “My brother challenged me to a duel last night, after our sister’s wedding. I had to take his sword away from him.”

  “Why did you quarrel?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “The deeper cut will require stitching. Let us go into the other room, where the light is better.” Laurence obeyed, and Seward sat him down in a chair. Though still mildly stupefied, he had to swallow back nausea as the needle dug into his skin, and after a while he stopped watching.

  “Seward,” he said, “in a few days’ time Falkland will talk to the man who saw Hoare opening his correspondence. A friend of mine, Isabella Savage, is helping to arrange the meeting.” He described his earlier conversation with Falkland in the stables, and his hurried ride to Great Tew. “Falkland’s wife was in such a panic over this urgent summons that I became nervous about it myself. So I came here and managed to find his quarters, but his servant said he was in conference with the King. That was when the drug started to overwhelm me. My heart was racing, and yet I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. I don’t remember any more.”

  Seward was studying Laurence’s face, in between stitches. “I could not but notice, as you entered, that you were wearing a most captivating scent – attar of roses, orrisroot, musk, and a touch of frankincense, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I didn’t know you had such a keen sense of smell,” Laurence remarked.

  “Who is this woman Isabella Savage, and why should she volunteer to assist Falkland?”

  “Lord Digby is her guardian. Digby hates Colonel Hoare.”

  “Ah, I see: it will be as convenient for them as for you, if Hoare falls from grace. But that does not explain the perfume. Was it because of her that you and your brother came to violence?”

  “In
part.”

  “My dear boy!” Seward tied a neat knot with the thread and snipped off the excess with a pair of scissors. “And on your sister’s wedding night! I hope you were discreet.”

  Laurence thought of Lady Morecombe and began to laugh. “I’m afraid we weren’t, though it wasn’t exactly our fault.”

  Seward rose and went to his cupboard, from which he selected various jars and a pestle and mortar. “You need a poultice, to stop the wound from suppurating,” he said, and they were quiet for a while as he prepared it. “Just watch out where desire leads you,” he advised, on his return.

  “You speak from experience,” Laurence observed, smiling.

  “Indeed I do. Now, I have some news for you, on the subject of our regicides. Since my return to College, I had a most fruitful chat with John Earle. Pembroke sent him a letter through Lord Falkland.”

  “Yes, yes, I knew about that. What did Pembroke want?”

  “To reconcile with Earle, despite the political differences that had caused them to argue. Earle said he’s in Pembroke’s debt. He had been Pembroke’s chaplain at Court in the early thirties, and was bestowed the rectory of Bishopston, in Wiltshire, for his service. A very generous living.”

  “What did you say to Earle?”

  “That he should investigate Pembroke’s motives before making any decision. I think it was enough to put him on guard.”

  “He should be on guard,” Laurence said vehemently.

  “Beaumont, it’s high time you told Falkland about your trip to London.”

  “I know. And now I also know where Radcliff is: at his brother-in-law’s in Newbury.”

  “It will be a rude interruption, if you seize him there.”

  “I’ll have to draw him out. But I’d rather wait until next week, by which time Falkland should have Hoare safely under arrest.”