The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “Sir, pray keep your accusations to yourself, or you shall stand in contempt of this court.” The judge turned to Falkland. “My lord, may the court have access to these documents?”

  “I am afraid not, on the express wish of His Majesty,” said Falkland gravely. “They contain confidential information regarding matters of state. I have here a letter from him, to that effect.” And he handed it on, through his lawyers.

  The judge scanned it, then addressed Colonel Hoare, who was shaking with anger. “Sir, I regret that the court cannot overrule His Majesty’s decision. Your case will have to proceed without these records.”

  “My lord, this is a perversion of justice!” cried Hoare.

  “Once more, sir, I warn you to contain yourself. Mr. Beaumont, you may stand down,” the judge said.

  Beaumont bowed his head, acknowledging judge and jury, and walked past the prisoner’s dock without a single look at Hoare. As he passed beneath one of the galleries, a woman rose and tossed her fan down to him. He paid no attention but Seward craned to catch a glimpse of the owner. She was young and dark-haired, her pretty heart-shaped face very animated.

  II.

  “Thomas Beaumont,” said Hoare, in a strained voice, “will you admit that you came to me in December last, with news that your brother Laurence Beaumont was assisting my Lord Falkland to negotiate terms in private, with the enemy?”

  “Yes, but I – I was in error,” Tom said, attempting to keep his own tone even.

  “Did you not expect me to investigate the truth of your assertion?”

  “I did not expect you to use violence against my brother.”

  “Yet surely I would not be fulfilling my duty to His Majesty to let such information go without discovering the truth of it?” Tom was silent. “Have you not suggested, sir, to myself and to others, that your brother led a reprehensible life as a mercenary abroad?”

  “Whatever he may have done there, since his return he has been fighting with Wilmot’s Horse, and did good service at Edgehill,” Tom replied more confidently.

  After some murmuring between Falkland and the prosecutors, another paper was handed up to the judge, who read it before delivering it to the clerk of the court. “Let it be entered into record,” he said, “that His Highness Prince Rupert and Henry Wilmot, Commissioner General of His Majesty’s Horse, made particular mention of Laurence Beaumont’s bravery at Edgehill in scouting for enemy troops and thereby securing intelligence that proved of immense value to His Majesty’s armies on the eve of the battle.”

  Hoare tried to probe Tom on Laurence’s association with Falkland, but the court was now muttering its displeasure with the prisoner’s aggressive tactics. The judge had to intervene yet again as Hoare started to rant against both Beaumonts. “If you have no more reasonable questions,” the judge said to Hoare, “I must request you to hold your peace.”

  At last Hoare complied, and a lawyer for the prosecution rose to cross-examine Tom. “Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “did you have any quarrel with your brother, at the time that you overheard his conversation with my Lord Falkland?”

  “My brother and I have had our differences now and again, but they are unconnected with matters of state,” Tom said.

  “Then why in heaven’s name did you not ask him outright about that conversation, before reporting it to the accused?”

  “I would have, but he left the house shortly after he and his lordship talked. I have not seen him since, until today.”

  “Why did you choose to report to Colonel Hoare, and not, for example, to His Highness the Prince, in whose regiment you served?”

  “I was … I was not so sure of what I had heard, to warrant troubling His Highness,” Tom said, feeling the blood rise to his cheeks.

  “And yet this flimsy suspicion of yours could have cost your brother his life,” the lawyer said, “and my Lord Falkland his office.”

  Tom took a deep breath. “I acted thoughtlessly. But I now understand that Colonel Hoare entrapped me, bending my words to his purpose, to take the liberty of abusing my brother and defaming our Secretary of State.”

  “These brothers are both perjurers,” declared Hoare, and he refused to re-examine the witness.

  Tom left the courtroom trembling, to find Laurence waiting outside. “Thank you, Tom,” he said.

  “Was there a conspiracy?” Tom whispered.

  He noticed a familiar, evasive expression cross Laurence’s face. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “And Lord Falkland? Is there any truth in what Hoare said of him?”

  “No, none at all,” Laurence replied, now gazing straight at Tom.

  They were quiet, examining each other. “You don’t look so badly,” Tom ventured, “for what was done to you.” Laurence gave a little shrug. “Did you hear that my wife lost our child?”

  “When?” asked Laurence, moving closer.

  Tom retreated a step. “The day after Elizabeth’s wedding.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Laurence said, with such concern that Tom had to turn from him and swiftly walk away.

  III.

  “I assume you have good news,” Laurence said, as Seward flung open the door to his chambers.

  “I do! Hoare was found guilty on all counts. In his final address to the jury, he made a spectacle of himself, lashing out against you, your brother, Captain Milne, and my Lord Falkland for sending an innocent man to his death. He even remarked upon your absence, claiming that you must be too ashamed to show your face, after lying so baldly to the court.”

  “He wasn’t altogether wrong on that score,” admitted Laurence, with a rueful smile.

  “Then let us pray he may be treated more mercifully on the Day of Judgement.”

  “What hypocritical nonsense! Don’t pretend you give a shit if he burns in hell. Was Isabella there?” Laurence could not resist adding, for he had not seen her in court when he gave his testimony.

  “No. Milne came alone.”

  “Ah. Seward, I got a letter today from my father. He said it was urgent that I come home at once.”

  “You should inform Falkland. He is on his way here as we speak.”

  Soon afterwards, Falkland entered unaccompanied and greeted them more brusquely than was his habit. “Your advice was sound, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “though I wish I’d had no need to follow it. By nature I’m not fond of taking wild risks, nor am I practised at tampering with the due process of law.”

  “Ah well, fortunately for you, my lord, I have no such scruples,” Laurence said, annoyed to be damned with faint praise.

  “I did not mean that as it came out,” Falkland apologised. “I have you to thank for the successful conclusion of this trial. Should we not question Hoare, before his sentence is carried out, to determine whether he recruited any others in my service to work against me?”

  “If I were you, my lord, I’d let him die with what dignity he has left. You’d spend your time more profitably in building a new network of agents who share your political views and can be depended on.”

  “I must have your help there.”

  “You will, but not immediately. My father wants me to come home first.”

  Falkland looked distinctly embarrassed. “I am afraid I contradicted your wishes and wrote to Lord Beaumont, in strict confidence, about what you did for me. He might have heard anyway about the trial and I wanted to give him a true account.”

  Laurence sighed shortly; so that was what had prompted his father’s letter to him. “Afterwards, my lord, I should like to return to my regiment,” he said.

  “I shall ask Wilmot to release you, sir. My need of you is greater than his.”

  “No, my lord. If you want me back, you know what you must do. Arrest Radcliff.”

  “I, too, am chafing at His Majesty’s delay as concerns the regicides. Yet as I’ve told you, I cannot force him into action.”

  “Then please don’t force me. I’ll be at Chipping Campden for only a few days, and after that, you can summo
n me from Wilmot’s service should circumstances require.”

  “Very well.” Falkland bowed to them. “Good day to you both, gentlemen.”

  “What a transformation in him,” Seward remarked to Laurence, when he had gone. “I imagine that he has learnt from you the value of acting expediently.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’ve corrupted him?”

  “Well, you may perhaps have loosened his ethical moorings,” Seward said, with a dry chuckle.

  IV.

  As Pembroke reviewed his servant’s written account of the trial of Colonel Hoare, his curiosity turned gradually to cold fear. The condemned spymaster had sworn to the existence of a conspiracy to regicide, even though the man who had supposedly uncovered it testified that the whole affair was a fiction invented by Hoare himself to disgrace Lord Falkland. This witness, Laurence Beaumont, must be the son of someone Pembroke knew, Lord James Beaumont of Chipping Campden, and was clearly very loyal to the Secretary of State. It also emerged at the trial that he was an expert in ciphers. Far too close to home, Pembroke thought, horrified.

  He had visited Lord Beaumont’s house many years before; the son would have been a boy then, and he had no memory of him. But he had not forgotten Lord Beaumont’s wife. Her exotic face had so entranced him that he had envied her husband in having such a jungle cat for his bed, despite her haughty mien; there had been an awkward moment at table when Pembroke had spat out a bone onto the floor, and Lady Beaumont had frozen him with her unearthly emerald gaze as if he had just lowered his breeches to defecate. From his servant’s description, her son had inherited her looks.

  V.

  On the way to Chipping Campden, Laurence pondered whether he should have called again on Isabella. But he still winced at the memory of her cold reception last time; worse yet was the thought of her in bed with Milne.

  He arrived to find Lady Beaumont, Anne, and Tom’s wife at their embroidery in the hall. To his surprise, Alice Morecombe was there as well, stitching at a frame, and he saw her redden the moment she set eyes on him.

  Lady Beaumont rose to greet him, her expression a mixture of anxiety and relief. “Laurence, your father has passed many a sleepless night worrying about you. You do remember Alice,” she added.

  “Yes. Good day to you,” he said, bowing to the girl. “I heard from Tom about your child,” he told Mary. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It was God’s will, sir,” she replied, her face solemn.

  “Now,” said Lady Beaumont, “to the library.” She took Laurence’s arm and guided him in that direction, remarking as they climbed the stairs, “You are fortunate; as you may guess, Lady Morecombe has granted you a second chance.”

  “How ever did you persuade her?”

  “With much diplomacy, but it is done. Since then Alice has remained at the house, the better to become acquainted with us. We must have your word on the betrothal, Laurence. You cannot shame your father twice.” At the library doors she stopped and whispered, “You do not know what a blow it was for him, to hear of all that happened to you.”

  “I asked Falkland not to write. I wanted to explain myself.”

  “Too late,” she said crisply, and knocked.

  “Pray enter,” Lord Beaumont called from within.

  Laurence was shocked on seeing the alteration that less than four months’ time had wrought in him. His hair and beard were more white than grey, he appeared shrunken in height and thicker about the middle, and his face had a high, purplish colour. At fifty-seven or thereabouts, he had attained an age that many would consider old, but whereas before he had not shown his years, now they seemed to weigh him down. Even Seward, at close to seventy, possessed a more sprightly air.

  He embraced Laurence for a while without speaking, and afterwards inspected him, murmuring, “My beloved son, to think of such pain inflicted upon my own flesh and blood! And how I blame myself for not coming to your aid!”

  “Please, you mustn’t,” Laurence insisted, feeling equally at a loss for words. “It’s all in the past, now, and you should forget about it.”

  Lord Beaumont brightened a little. “We have Alice Morecombe with us. What a sweet child she is! I am sure that you will come to like her as we do.”

  “She is still a child,” Laurence said.

  “Not so,” Lady Beaumont objected. “She has been having her monthly courses for a year now.”

  Laurence almost laughed, then caught his mother’s frown and restrained himself. “Thank you,” he told her, “for that interesting information.”

  VI.

  “Mr. Meyboom,” said Pembroke, as a thin, plainly dressed man appeared and bowed before him, “I have been some time in finding you. Would you please cast your eyes on this.” And he unveiled the tableau of Eros and Harpocrates, which he had had framed elaborately in gilt. Meyboom surveyed it without any change in expression; typical phlegmatic Netherlander, Pembroke thought. “Is it your work?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Who commissioned it?” Pembroke demanded, his heart thudding in his breast.

  “The gentleman did not give his name.”

  “Describe him to me.” Meyboom hesitated. “Come on, come on! What did he look like?”

  “He was young, perhaps between twenty-five and thirty, and tall.”

  Pembroke let out a derisive snort. “You are an artist, sir. Can you not supply me with more detail than that?”

  “His hair was black, and he was dark-complexioned. If he had not spoken English without a trace of an accent, I would have judged him to be of Spanish or Italian origin. He also spoke my language fluently.”

  “What else, what else?”

  “He had green eyes, my lord,” Meyboom said slowly. “A striking shade of pale green.”

  VII.

  Laurence stood staring at the marbles on either side of the doors into the hall. He could envisage the naked youth with a serpent and the nymph with her cluster of grapes hacked to pieces by the soldiers of Parliament, who had destroyed so many other statues judged idolatrous about the country. The youth, as he viewed him now, seemed hardly a match for the reptile coiled threateningly about his right leg.

  Over the past week, Laurence had felt in a similar situation himself. His father had besieged him with questions about his duties for the Secretary of State, his relations with Hoare, and his incarceration. “And what was Thomas doing in all this affair?” Lord Beaumont had wanted to know. “I must find out from him.”

  “There’s no need, he did nothing wrong,” Laurence had assured his father, and after that, upset by Lord Beaumont’s decline, he had averted any further discussion of the subject.

  Meanwhile, his mother thrust him into the company of Alice Morecombe at every opportunity. She was, he supposed, no worse than other girls of her rank and age, but he had little to say to her. Although she was not shrewish in temperament, like the last girl his parents had selected for him to marry, she had neither wit nor charm nor intellectual curiosity. How to escape this betrothal, he wondered.

  “Laurence?” He turned to see Anne smiling at him. “Such a glum face you had on! Would a game of backgammon cheer you? Elizabeth and I haven’t played since December, when Mr. Ingram was here.”

  As soon as she spoke the name, Laurence needed no more information as to her feelings. “He’s in love with you, Anne. Would you accept if he asked for your hand?”

  “But he won’t,” she said gently. “I can no more marry him than you can avoid marrying Alice.”

  Remembering Madam Musgrave’s instructions, Laurence kept silent.

  Tomorrow he would rejoin Wilmot, he decided, as he and his sisters shifted their black and white pieces across the board. Yet first he had to disabuse his parents and Alice Morecombe of their notions about his marriage.

  Before supper that evening the weather cleared, and he asked Alice out to walk in the garden. “I’ve got a confession to make,” he said eventually. “I believe in honesty, don’t you?”

  “Yes,
sir,” she said.

  “I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hands, then dropped them and stammered, “Do you … do you wish to marry her, instead?”

  “She’s not a woman who could ever be my wife. It was she who your mother found with me, that night.”

  Alice’s face puckered, as if she had tasted something rotten. “Mr. Beaumont, please take me back to the house.”

  “Not yet. I want you to know that after we’re married I shan’t give her up. You won’t have to see or hear of her. I’ll provide for her as I choose, and any children I might have by her will receive a settlement on my death, though no amount so large as to compromise the finances of the estate. And only yours will carry my name. It’s an equitable solution, don’t you think?”

  “I think it is scandalous!” Alice exclaimed.

  “Forgive me, but it’s not unusual.”

  Alice gaped at him. “How could you expect me to accept those terms?”

  “You’ll have to. Both of our families are in agreement.”

  “Sir, I can tell you that when my mother hears of this, there will be no more talk of a betrothal!”

  He laughed and shook his head. “If she wasn’t deterred by what she saw when she had the misfortune to enter my chamber, she’ll be amenable to what I propose. I don’t intend to hurt you, Alice, but you must understand: I’m nearly twice your age, and you can’t expect me to change my ways, let alone break with a woman I care for above any other.” Alice started to cry. “I’m sorry. I thought you would appreciate the truth,” Laurence said, reaching for her hand.

  “You are not sorry,” she expostulated, shaking him off. “And I would not marry you if you were the last and the richest man in all England.”