In the kitchen at Blackman Street, through mouthfuls of eel stew, Price poured out to Barlow and Sarah what had transpired since Beaumont had hired him as an agent, ending with his ignominious arrest in the Strand. “I was found guilty of loitering beyond the hour of curfew, and spent ten days in the Fleet because I couldn’t pay the fine.”
“And to think you were afraid of being taken by Veech,” Barlow commented. “Why didn’t you send for me at once?”
“I hadn’t a brass farthing after the turnkey was finished robbing me. It took me that long to raise money to pay someone to fetch you.”
“Picked some pockets, Ned?” Sarah asked.
“There were none worth picking.”
“Did you bend over your sweet bum to pleasure the turnkey?” Price grimaced and flung down his spoon; she was close to the truth. “Was it he who mashed your nose in?”
“No, it was Susan Sprye, the thankless bitch.” Price could not resist a boast. “I’ve better prospects in mind: I’m about to court Madam Elizabeth Ormiston for my wife. She’s Mr. Beaumont’s widowed sister.”
Sarah howled uproariously, slapping her thigh. “You’ve lost your wits, Ned Price.”
“We are in love, Sarah.”
“You may be besotted with each other, for all I know, but blood is blood and yours ain’t blue. You’ve more chance of mating with one of them lions caged up in the Tower.”
“Mr. Beaumont said he has no objection, if his father gives me leave to address her.”
Barlow stomped out of the kitchen and came back with a hand mirror that used to belong to Mistress Edwards. “Wake up, Ned, and open your eyes.”
“You weren’t never the prettiest of fellows – just middling, I’d say,” Sarah added, “but now you are downright ugly.”
Price flinched from his image and changed the subject. “Is it safe for me to stay, Barlow?”
“The Southwark militia are thin on the ground these days,” Barlow said. “Most of the brigades are to march out on campaign with Lord Essex. And why would Veech trouble to keep watching the house? Mr. Beaumont ain’t been near in months, the ladies have gone to Rose’s family at Chelmsford, and I’ve sworn off my old trade.”
“My next concern is to communicate with Lady Hallam, on Lord Digby’s business. Her ladyship won’t trust anyone save me,” said Price haughtily, still smarting from their abuse.
“Then you’ll need a new disguise,” said Sarah, “to match your new nose.”
XI.
“Ah Beaumont, come in,” cried Seward. “We are all hustle and bustle at Merton. The Queen is leaving us for Bath, Clarke informs me, and then she will travel onwards to Exeter for her confinement.”
“And tomorrow the King is to prorogue his Assembly,” Beaumont said, with artificial cheer. “His army will take to the field, to cut off an attack by Essex and the redoubtable London Trained Bands.”
“Is Lord Wilmot’s Horse to ride out with him?”
“Yes indeed.” Beaumont looked down at Pusskins, who was sniffing at his boots. “That cat of yours would benefit from a little exercise. He’s as round as Dr. Clarke.”
“It is the season: each spring, he busies himself destroying a host of newborn mice and rats.”
“I ate a few rats in the war abroad, when I was serving with the Spanish.”
“How was the meat?”
“Quite tasty, but, as they say, hunger is the best sauce.”
Seward eyed his friend. “You have more news for me, other than that you are off on campaign.”
“I received a puzzling note from Tom,” Beaumont confessed. “He wants us to discuss an urgent family matter, too delicate to broach until we’re face to face. It’s not in Tom’s nature to be delicate.”
“Might it concern your father’s health, or the occupation of the house?”
“Perhaps both. At any rate, Wilmot’s granted me leave to ride out and call on the Furnivals before we become embroiled in action. They may know more about what’s happened at Chipping Campden. And I should set a day for my marriage – it’s the only thing I can do, to give my parents some comfort in their beleaguered state.”
“You should get a message to her ladyship about your Spanish double.”
“And tell her what, Seward? That a relative of hers by blood was caught assaulting some woman in an Oxford pothouse famous for its drunks and thieves? Or that he might have murdered an officer of Parliament, while in London? If he was the murderer, which I can’t confirm, she might well congratulate him.”
“You could at least warn her that he is here in England,” Seward said darkly.
XII.
Veech trained his perspective glass on the window of Lady Hallam’s bedchamber. He was familiar with her nightly routine: towards the hour of eleven, she would go up to be undressed by her maid. Strumpet that she was, she never drew the curtains. And what a time it took her to discard all her layers, and unpin her hair, and have it brushed. Then she would stand by the window in her flimsy nightgown and look out, as though she could see him watching from the thicket of trees across the street. He studied the curves of her body. Those full, high breasts struck him as awkward, vulnerable appendages. They reminded him of a church he had once visited in Italy dedicated to St. Agatha, and the old priest who had recounted her legend to him. Devoutly Christian, she was thrown into a brothel by a Roman envious of her love for God. When she still refused to renounce her faith, despite being forced to serve as a whore, the Roman had tortured her and cut off her breasts; and she had died a martyr. “Now there’s an idea,” Veech said to himself, laughing, and put away his glass.
Part Three
England, April–July 1644
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I.
“My visit will again have to be short, with all the patrols on the roads,” Laurence told Lady Margaret as she led him into the hall. There he found the same gathering of gentlewomen and girls at their domestic labours, Pen and Catherine included. Today Catherine looked less wild, her hair dressed, and her gown neat and clean; and now that he saw the twins in such close proximity, he observed a stronger resemblance between them, yet Catherine’s face seemed to him older than Pen’s by some years. “Have you any word from my family, your ladyship?” he inquired.
“I am afraid not, sir – their house must still be under occupation, though we did hear a rumour that Colonel Massey might summon his men back to Gloucester garrison. Sir Harold is in the far meadow with our shepherds. I’ll bid him to come to us at once.”
“I thank you, but there’s no need,” Laurence said, pleased to avoid the man. “If you would inform him that in a bit over a week I’ve another very brief leave to ride out for the wedding ceremony, and then I must return straight to Oxford.”
“Sir, that is impossibly soon,” said Pen. “My gown will not be ready.”
“And the banns should be asked three Sundays in advance, in Chipping Campden parish and in ours, and we’ve a feast to prepare,” said Lady Margaret, with mild reproach.
“These are not normal circumstances, ladies. My own family can’t risk attending the ceremony, and if Parliament discovers I’m in the neighbourhood, you’ll be visited by rebel troops. My capture would put a tidy conclusion to my prospects as Penelope’s husband. There must be no feast, simply a quick exchange of vows.”
“The war interferes with everything,” complained Penelope.
Laurence turned deliberately to Catherine. “What happened to the magpie? Has his wing healed?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Catherine said, “but he’s got a fine appetite. I keep him in a cage, in a barn near the stables.”
“Sir Harold failed to comprehend why you took pains to rescue it, sir,” said Lady Margaret. “I had to explain to him that you were merely humouring our daughter’s tender heart.”
“You’re entirely wrong, my lady,” said Laurence. “I was humouring myself. As a boy, I kept a sort of hospital for wounded creatures. If I couldn’t save them, I would dissect th
em for my lessons in anatomy.”
“Mr. Beaumont must excel in the study of anatomy,” Penelope remarked. “I hope he will instruct me in it, next week.”
Her mother and the ladies blushed and tittered, but not Catherine, Laurence noticed. Was it true what Elizabeth and Jermyn said: that she did not wish to marry? Or was she offended by her sister’s joke? He assumed an air of masculine command. “I’d like to see that magpie, on my way out.”
“Mr. Beaumont,” said Lady Margaret, “you don’t have to humour her further when you are in such a hurry.”
Catherine shifted in her seat; and in her eyes he read a mute appeal. “Once more, I am humouring myself,” he said, “and it will take me no time at all.”
“Your sisters shall accompany you, Catherine. Pen, dear?”
“I would rather not,” said Penelope.
In that moment he knew: they would come to detest each other, as a married couple. “Good day to you then, ladies, and until next week.”
A pack of girls pursued him and Catherine into the courtyard, squealing as they entered the shadowy barn when a mouse scuttled for shelter in a bale of straw. In one corner was a wooden cage. Catherine knelt down by it, as did Laurence. Unfastening a door on top, she deftly withdrew the bird, and set it on the floor. Immediately it tried to hide behind the cage. “Don’t,” she said, to the children crowding round. “You’re frightening him.”
“We’ll do as we like, Miss Cat,” snapped the tallest girl, a miniature of Penelope.
“Get out and shut the door,” said Laurence. The other children ran off, but she lingered. “And you,” he told her, at which she flounced out, pouting. “Why does she talk to you so rudely?” he asked Catherine.
Catherine said nothing. She untied the magpie’s bandage, stroked its feathers into place, and offered it to Laurence. He extended the wing and felt for the break, though his eyes were wandering: to the light pattern of freckles on the bridge of Catherine’s nose, the thick fringe of her lashes, and a tiny scar on her forehead. Her ears were not pierced, unusual in a young woman. She had mentioned that she had no jewellery, yet even her little sisters wore earrings. Why not her?
“Is it better, sir?”
With an effort, Laurence focused on the magpie. “How long has he been here?”
“We rescued him on the fourth of March, and today is the sixteenth of April.”
“How well you remember.”
Just as he heard the clip clop of hooves from the courtyard, a veiled expression came over her face. “My father is home, sir. You must forgive Pen’s boldness,” she went on, as though someone were dictating her speech. “She’s so eager to be married to you.”
“But not until her gown is ready. And you – are you eager to be married?” Catherine inhaled sharply; Laurence might have pricked her with a pin. He let go of the bird, which began to flutter about, experimenting with hops off the ground. He waited, and still she did not answer. “Is there some … impropriety in my question?”
She ignored it altogether. “Should I make him a new bandage?”
“No. Look at him – he’s testing the wing. He has to learn how to fly again.”
She fixed on Laurence her dark, compelling gaze, and a thought crept into his head; to act on it would interfere with everything, like the war. “What if he can’t, sir? What then?”
Sir Harold was shouting, “Mr. Beaumont? Mr. Beaumont! Where are you?”
Go to hell, Laurence told him.
“Sir,” she persisted, in a low, desperate voice, “if he can’t fly, would it be right to keep him in this cage for the rest of his life? Perhaps we shouldn’t have rescued him. It’s worse to be offered hope, only to be disappointed.”
“Catherine,” Laurence said, as urgently, “did you know that the male magpie is almost identical to the female? They could be twins by their appearance, but within they’re different. You may be your sister’s twin, but I think you’re very different in character. And I think she and I are not suited for marriage. Would you ever—”
“I’m more different from her than you know,” Catherine interrupted. “My father is calling you.”
Laurence rose, cursing his own vanity: why should he have expected a reciprocal attraction? She was biting her lower lip, eyes screwed shut. “Which of you is the oldest, you or Penelope?” he asked.
“I am,” she said, without looking up, “by an hour.”
“Thank you,” he said, and walked out to Sir Harold.
“I should have thrown that damned bird to my dogs,” Sir Harold boomed jovially. “What a silly girl she is, to be so infatuated with it. Pen has more sense.” He clapped a hand on Laurence’s shoulder. “A storm is blowing our way, sir, and it will be no weather for riding. You must stop fretting about the rebels, and pass the night with us.”
A veritable storm, thought Laurence, as Sir Harold marched him into the house.
Penelope was clearly delighted by his reappearance, and Lady Margaret announced to her husband, “Mr. Beaumont has said that he wishes to marry Pen in a little more than a week.”
“On which day, sir?” said Sir Harold, apparently untroubled by religious preliminaries.
Laurence adopted Lady Beaumont’s most glacial tone. “It was to have been the twenty-fourth of April—”
“Oh, but the twenty-fourth is not a Sunday,” interjected Lady Margaret; then she caught his use of the past tense. “Will you postpone it, after all?”
“I am reconsidering it altogether, my lady, since I hear from Catherine that she is your eldest daughter.”
Sir Harold snorted. “She had no business prattling on to you. I told you she’s a silly creature.”
“I dislike your attitude, sir,” Laurence said. “Had I not met her by chance last time, in the … the stable, I would never know of her existence. You’ve done her a gross discourtesy: convention requires that I should have proposed to her first.”
“But, Mr. Beaumont, Catherine does not want to be married,” said Penelope, with a patient air.
“That’s not the point. She was allowed no opportunity to refuse me. And as for you, Mistress Penelope, though I might have taken you as my bride, I confess, I had grave doubts about our happiness as man and wife.”
She coloured. “Doubts, sir?”
“When, pray God, the war ends, and should I survive it, I intend to pass the rest of my days cultivating whatever is left of my father’s estate. You find the countryside dull, compared to the society you enjoyed at Oxford. I think you would be miserable leading such a life with me.” Laurence softened his voice. “You have youth, beauty, and charm to recommend you. You will have many other proposals of marriage. It would be unfair of me to continue my suit.”
“You would insult me if you broke it off,” cried Penelope.
“Mr. Beaumont, we cannot, at this late stage,” expostulated Sir Harold. “It will be imagined you heard of some stain upon Penelope’s honour, and that would sadly diminish her prospects. And we had considerable expense with our lawyer, sir.”
“True – as has my family.” Laurence pretended to reflect. “However, if I marry Catherine for the reason I’ve stated, there will be no aspersions cast. And I would satisfy myself and my family that there’s been no discourtesy on your part.”
“You cannot marry Catherine,” gasped Lady Margaret, as though Laurence had amorous designs on her husband.
“Why not, your ladyship, if she will accept me?”
“She is a … a shy, retiring girl whose health is affected by the slightest change.”
“Then the life to which I aspire could fit her very well.”
“She is impractical, sir: she could not manage a household. She has no conversation, no wit, and no womanly talents.”
“She can learn how to manage a household, my lady, and in our albeit limited acquaintance, she has lacked neither for wit nor conversation. And I’m not certain what you mean by womanly talents,” Laurence went on, “but if my supposition is correct, those can al
so be learnt.”
Sir Harold was scratching his beard, paying no attention to the horrified faces of his wife and daughter. “Should she accept you, she will bring with her the bridal portion that we offered you for Penelope. How will we provide for Pen, when it comes to her turn?”
“As I assume you will provide for the rest of your lovely daughters, sir.”
“But Pen wishes to marry this year.”
“I will accept Catherine with half her portion,” said Laurence, astonishing himself. As he spoke, he thought of his father and mother, and of all the careful negotiating that must have preceded the betrothal, and of what they might have lost to the rebels.
“What of Catherine’s … health?” quavered Lady Margaret.
“Mr. Beaumont is right,” Sir Harold said. “A quiet life in the countryside is exactly what her health requires. You have a bargain, sir. Fetch Catherine,” he told his wife.
Tears glistened in Penelope’s eyes as she watched her mother obey. Then she sailed from the hall with a dignity Laurence had to admire. Her miniature scowled venomously at him, and followed.
Catherine came in wiping her hands on her skirts; she eyed Sir Harold warily. “Cat,” he said, “Mr. Beaumont has accused us of disrespect in not permitting him to address you, our firstborn daughter, before Penelope.”
“It is of no importance to me, sir. He is already betrothed to Pen.”
“Convention is important to him, and though we have apprised him of your many defects, he insists on addressing you all the same. You have our blessing to accept. So, what do you say?”
“Will you marry me, Catherine?” Laurence asked.
She hesitated, evidently stunned. Then she said firmly, “Yes, I will.”
Laurence raced across the courtyard towards the stables. Rain pelted from a bruised sky, and the roads would be a quagmire, but none of this dampened his mood. He would write to his parents after the wedding; by then he would have pleased them in one regard, and as to the bridal portion, he would find some way of making amends.
The Licence of War Page 32
