The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  five hundred years old. The room had that same odd contrast in furniture. Two sofas on opposite sides of the fireplace were no more than thirty or forty years old. But the trestle table between them, cut down from its original size, was pure Tudor as was the refectory table against the stone wall. The farmer's wife had filled a large white porcelain pitcher with garden flowers, and their color brought the whole room to life. Several portraits, Elizabethan he was sure, lined the walls and he went to look at them. My God, Holbeins . . . but they couldn't be. He looked for a signature—there it was in the corner, "B. Perm." He stood back and admired the paintings; they were the best imitation Holbein he'd ever seen. He'd have sworn they were genuine. B. Penn, whoever you are, you are damned clever, he thought.

  His attention was drawn by the farmer's wife opening the front door—a massive piece, heavily carved from a single slab. Studded with huge nails, it creaked loudly as she opened it. He felt a little cheated in not being left to examine the room more fully, but the woman was good to give him this much of her time. He smiled gratefully as they stepped out into the sunlight. There was a great difference between the front and back of Sparrow Field Farm. The front lawn was neatly clipped, and a sundial in the center was surrounded by borders of marigolds, petunias and alyssum. The dial was too large and ornate for the lawn. He went some distance away and, gazing back at the farmhouse thought: five hundred years old and still looking tremendous. He saw why the pitch of the roof seemed out of proportion. Over the years the earth had built up to well over a foot around the building's base. That one foot made all the difference. To the right was a small arbor with a plaque in the form of a domino—a large plank, painted black with white dots. The dots spelled "Domino's Garden." Fascinated, Andrew walked through the arbor into a good-sized area enclosed by a wooden fence. In contrast with the unkempt backyard, the garden of Sparrow Field was tidy, with rows of vegetables straight as soldiers and not a weed in sight. This was obviously where the farmer and his wife spent a good deal of time. One whole end was given to roses and larkspur, and even from where he stood their fragrance was heavy in the midday heat. Nearer the kitchen end was the herb garden with a fountain in its center—waterless and as out of place as the sundial. There were several rows of spinning aluminum disks to keep the birds away. The sight made him remember the old man

  feeding the sparrows. How ironical that hundreds of years later birds were unwelcome in Domino's garden.

  Andrew returned to the woman waiting on the porch. "It's all lovely, ma'am. I'll tell Mrs. Caudle how kind you've been. And thank you for explaining about—explaining about. . . ."

  "Oh, sir, that was just old Domino. Mrs. Caudle knows the story. I think she saw the same thing when she was younger, although Mr. Harry never has. I've never seen it, and neither has my husband. Seems like strangers mostly see it instead of those who've lived here all their lives." The thought seemed to rankle; she pursed her lips. "But 'twas only the old man and his birds, so don't let it upset ye. That was his garden you saw—not the one for the manor house, of course, just the one he kept for himself. We like to keep it nice, as you can see."

  A half hour later, returning to London, Andrew saw the whole experience as farfetched and ridiculous. He knew Rosa Caudle would ask about the excavations and her farm. His problem now was how to tell his Artless Charmer that Nonsuch had made him physically ill and at her farm he'd seen the ghost of a man dead more than four hundred years.

  Qhapter ^Jhree

  Back in town, Andrew stopped at the London Museum to see the famed models of old London before the Great Fire of 1666. Tiny landscapes, riverside scenes, houses, bridges, gardens, trees, the Abbey—all meticulously reconstructed in lifelike miniatures—occupied several glass cases. He was primarily interested in old London Bridge. In medieval days the bridge had been lined on both sides with houses and shops, and one building was traditionally believed to have been modeled after Nonsuch Palace. Andrew recognized it at once. Called Nonsuch House, it stood proudly in the center, turrets, towers and pennants intact. The famous plaster panels, carved and ornate, surrounded by the black slate frames, were all accurately reproduced and compressed into such a small size that Andrew marveled at the builder's skill. Several structures, such as Nonsuch House and farther, near the southern end of the bridge, the exquisite gemlike Chapel of St. Thomas a Becket, spanned the bridge, with archways for traffic.

  Rosa Caudle was nowhere in sight when he arrived at Cudding-ton House. Andrew left word for her to contact him and then, once in his room, went to work. He had long trained himself to record his immediate impressions, and after sorting his notes, he dictated into a tape recorder everything he'd experienced at Nonsuch. After some deliberation he also included a description of what he called his "time slip" at Sparrow Field Farm. He could visualize Miss Dabney's reaction as she transcribed the tapes.

  He then made a detailed architectural rendering of the manor

  house as he remembered it and was dictating an accounting of the farmer's wife's conversation when the telephone rang.

  It was Rosa Caudle, and she sounded troubled. "I spoke with Mrs. Williams at the farm, sir. She said you'd had a bit of an adventure. Was everything all right, sir? Did you find everything you expected?"

  Andrew replied that yes, he'd had an adventure, and that's what he'd like to talk to her about. It was nothing to be worried about, he assured Rosa, sensing her apprehension. Yes, Mrs. Williams had been most kind. But there were several things he'd like to discuss and he asked if she'd join him for tea in the lounge.

  There was a moment's silence. Clearly, guests didn't often invite their landlady for tea. She probably thinks I have some complaint, Andrew thought and assured her he only wished to take a little of her time. Would she meet him in half an hour? Rosa agreed, yet sounded reluctant and thoughtful as she hung up.

  She was at the table waiting when Andrew appeared a half hour later, briefcase in hand. She'd changed her dress and wore one of those incredible flowered hats so dear to the English lady's heart. Yet her face was concerned as she watched him approach. Andrew tried to set her at ease.

  "You are good to come, Mrs. Caudle." He smiled. "I hope I'm not interrupting your routine." He shook her hand and was pleased to see the beautiful pink spread across her face. "Your woman took very good care of me at Sparrow Field today. It's a lovely place—I envy you and your husband."

  Rosa appeared to unbend. "Harry's at the desk, sir. He told me to take my time. I told him you'd had an experience, as Mrs. Williams said, and we both wanted to be sure it was nothing we'd done. Was the train all right, sir?"

  Again, Andrew assured Rosa that everything she'd suggested— including the visit to Sparrow Field—had been fine. There was a moment's diversion as they ordered tea. Then Andrew decided to plunge right in. If he dawdled and tried to draw her out, he'd only succeed in confusing Rosa, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. She was too land, too guileless for him to play games. And so he told her, step by step, of his trip to Ewell. Of his walk from the station, through the village, of wondering about old Henry VIII riding through after the hunt and of how he'd seen a plowman with oxen

  tilling a field on one side, while down the road, there was a flock of birds behind a wall. . . .

  "Mr. Moffatt, you saw the birds?" Rosa's voice was incredulous, and she set her teacup down nervously. "What else did you see?"

  "I'd like you to tell me what I saw, please, Mrs. Caudle." Andrew smiled, and his voice was kind. "It's important to me." He poured the tea carefully, trying to appear calm. It would be wise to have Mrs. Williams' story confirmed.

  Rosa looked out the window for a moment. She's wondering what to say, he thought. This has been a surprise for her. Perhaps it was unfair to spring it on her so suddenly.

  "You saw an old man feeding the birds—they were all over him," she said quietly, "and he kept brushing them away and throwing seed out to them all the while. And he talked to them. . . . And it was very quiet. Then an old
dog came out of the house in the back and went to lie down under the tree. It was all very lovely."

  "That's it, exactly." Andrew was relieved. They'd seen the same thing. She'd even recalled the dog which, he now remembered, he'd not mentioned to the farmer's wife at all. "And when did you first see it, Mrs. Caudle?" He tried to sound matter-of-fact and helped himself to a generous slice of seedcake.

  Rosa sighed—she was more relaxed now that the "adventure" had been explained. "Once when I was very little and again about four or five years ago." She sipped her tea, grateful the awkwardness was over. "When I was small, there was quite a ruckus about it, sir, for people thought I was telling lies, when I went to find the man and the birds again. But then someone in the village said they'd seen the same thing, and my parents had to believe me. Not that they ever liked it, though!" She laughed pleasantly. "They'd never seen it themselves, y'see. But over the years I discovered quite a few people have seen it, though many of them don't like to talk of it for fear of being made the fool. It can come upon anyone at any time."

  "And the second time?"

  "The second time I was hurrying down the village street, not even thinking about Domino—that's the old man's name, sir; I don't know whether Mrs. Williams told you. Well, I was just hurrying to get back to Sparrow Field, and when I turned in at the back gate, there it was again. It had been nearly twenty-five years since the first time, so I stood very still and looked carefully."

  "And what happened?" Andrew poured them both another cup of tea. He was intensely interested and Rosa was unselfconsciously realistic. At the same time he couldn't help thinking, how many people in this room, gorging themselves on sandwiches, tea, tarts and cake, are so placidly discussing a four-hundred-year-old event they've witnessed—and doing it as calmly as if remarking on the weather?

  "Just the same thing, sir. Old Domino sitting there in the sun. Feeding the birds. The dog came out and lay down. The house—oh, sir, wasn't the house beautiful! That was the old Cuddington house —where the man who built this house was born, you know." Rosa's smile deepened, and again that exquisite pink flooded her face. But there was no confusion—only a quiet pride. "It was a beautiful house, wasn't it?"

  Andrew drew the pencil sketch from his briefcase. "This is as I saw it." He set the drawing between them on the table.

  "That's it!" Rosa's voice was excited. "That's it exactly—oh, sir, you've made it lovely."

  "It was a beautiful house, Mrs. Caudle." He watched as she savored the details. "Certainly the people who built it—and who built Cuddington House—had excellent taste. But I'd like to know a little more, and you may be able to help. How did the vision appear? You see, I walked away, on toward the excavations. But I'm sure you didn't walk away—not the second time."

  "No. I didn't. I stayed right there, hardly daring to breathe, looking at the flowers and the house. Oh, it's all still so real! I almost wanted to walk right over to the old man, but I didn't. I wasn't scared, not really, but I knew that actually, the house and the old man were truly not there . . . and if I went in and they disappeared, then I might disappear, too!" She laughed, and Andrew joined in.

  "Well, sir," she finished, "it finally just faded away. I think I stayed there watching for maybe four or five minutes . . . and then the whole picture began to darken. Like it does on the telly sometime when they're going to change a scene. It began to darken, it began to waver a bit—like if you had a camera pointed at it and you jiggled the camera a little—and then, suddenly, there was just old Sparrow Field's backyard and the WiUiamses' dog coming toward me." She brushed a crumb from the tablecloth and said quietly, "I hated to have it go."

  Andrew was silent, oddly moved. Both he and this woman had shared an extraordinary experience and one which, coupled with his extreme reaction at the church site, had profoundly affected him. She'd told him everything she knew and was probably eager to relieve Harry at the desk so he might have his tea. But Andrew was reluctant to part with the one person who'd shared some of the same adventure. In the back of his mind was the desire to tell her why he'd come to England. He didn't think she'd' laugh, and for some unexplainable reason, he felt sure she might even be able to help. So, for the next half hour, while they enjoyed another pot of hot tea, Andrew told Rosa Caudle everything. Of his childhood visit to Nonsuch Park and hearing the story of the palace. Of roaming the world over with his parents and later in his professional capacity. He took the newspaper clipping about the Nonsuch excavations out and read it to her, explaining how eager he'd been to see them. He recalled the day he'd purchased Julian Cushing's Journal, thinking he might read more of Nonsuch from Julian's travels, and he told her how disappointed—and intrigued—he was by Julian's omission of anything concerning the palace.

  For a reason he found difficult to analyze, he didn't tell her about his unpleasant reaction at the site of Cuddington Church. It was still vivid in his mind, but he could think of no plausible explanation, and he didn't want to bewilder Rosa. He was giving her a good deal to think about as it was. He mentioned the casual way he'd learned of Cuddington House at the travel agency and how it had been a Miss Rosa Cuddington to whom Julian had come in his time for lodging. And how she'd sent him to Sparwefeld.

  When he finished, he was encouraged to see that—far from being bewildered—Rosa Caudle was deeply attentive. "Well, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, there are a good many coincidences, aren't there? That particular Rosa Cuddington I do happen to know about, because she was the first of that name in the family. The Cuddingtons have always been great ones for names, sir. There are always Richards, Jameses, Elizabeths, Chloes and Rosas. But Julian's Rosa, she was the first, I know."

  "And the James Cuddington who went to America and lived at Williamsburg and was Julian's friend?"

  "Well, now him I wouldn't know about at all. I never knew there was a Cuddington who'd gone to America. If it was a James, then he was the second son, for Richards were always first sons, espe-

  daily when there was a title to inherit, and Jameses were always second."

  "What especially intrigues me, Mrs. Caudle, is this." Andrew took the Journal from his briefcase and leafed through the pages. "Julian Cushing was to go to Nonsuch. He went, not once, but several times, but never wrote a thing about the visits. Nothing. That's exactly what he writes on the days he went there—Nothing.' Yet he's vividly descriptive of everything else. And he mentions a portrait of Nonsuch—not once, but several times. He'd first seen it at Williamsburg. You see, here it is. 'A rare find of such Beauty which set in me such a longing for Nonsuch.' And here, later on, 'Master Cudding-ton tells me the portrait is from Nonsuch.'" Then he found the paragraph describing the moment when Julian and Rosa Caudle's ancestress had unwrapped the portrait that had crossed the sea with Julian, and he'd written, "I also told her of my Desire to see the portrait returned to its owners. I can only hope I withheld my Passion from her gaze."

  Andrew put the Journal aside and asked Rosa, "Do you ever remember hearing about—or did your family ever own—a portrait of the palace which Julian Cushing apparently returned to the original owner?"

  "Well, sir"—Rosa's voice was matter-of-fact—"I myself don't remember any portrait of Nonsuch. I find Mr. Cushing's remarks very confusing. He could hardly return a portrait of the palace to its original owner in 1700—was that the year, sir? The original owner was King Henry, and he'd been dead a long time! If it was returned to any Cuddington, it would still be in the house or at Sparrow Field—or else, sold long ago. I'm afraid a great deal has been sold over the years. The Cuddington fortunes were never the same after the king took so much of their land. That's why the London house was remodeled to take in guests. We could never have kept it otherwise."

  Andrew read aloud from Julian's Journal. "Would that I could see the original in all beauty and grace.'" He set the book aside again. "Clearly, the boy was obsessed with seeing Nonsuch, yet I've always found it confusing that he must have known what he'd see when he arrived here co
uld only be ruins. It would hardly have looked like the original of the portrait."

  Rosa remained silent as he read, a faraway look in her eyes. Then she leaned conspiratorially across the table and said quietly, "Sir,

  did you ever stop to think that perhaps it was not a portrait of Nonsuch that Mr. Cushing was so taken with?"

  "But he says so right here in the Journal!"

  Rosa looked dubious. "I think you've assumed that, sir. You've read all the parts to me, and he never says it's a portrait of Nonsuch he's so blasted daft about. He talked of the 'original' and ^bringing it back to Nonsuch.' Maybe it originally came from the palace. Maybe it did. But I don't think it's a portrait of the palace."

  "Well, then, what is it?"

  "I think it's a portrait . . . of a . . . woman. . . ." Rosa was very definite now. "Oh, sir, think! No young man—I don't care if he lived a couple of hundred years ago—no young man is going to fall in love with a palace. He might have been truly interested in Nonsuch, but he came across the sea, I am sure, because of a woman— not a lot of ruins."

  Andrew's thoughts were racing—this was something he'd never considered. Julian's comment about "hoping to go to Nonsuch" and mentioning the portrait directly afterward had led him to believe the boy was bewitched by the old palace. He leafed through the places in the Journal he'd marked with bits of paper, rereading the paragraphs with Rosa's theory in mind. He looked up, saw her somewhat self-satisfied smile, read a bit more, then closed the book with a bang. "I'll be damned. . . ."

  Rosa laughed merrily, clasping her hands, and he joined in. "You're absolutely right. Of course, it must have been a woman. I wonder who in God's name it could have been?"