The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  Another student, aware of the boy's slim financial resources, told him of old James Cuddington, living now in his new house on Francis Street, who was looking for someone to read to him each day. Perhaps Julian would like the opportunity?

  The following day Julian set out, his mind on the pile of papers he must correct by the following morning rather than on his appointment. As he approached the house, he recalled the name. Cuddington. It seemed familiar, yet he knew he'd never met anyone of that name. Shaking his head at his own fantasy, he rang the

  bell and waited to see what James Cuddington would be like and how he, a nineteen-year-old-boy, might fit his requests into his own overworked and cheerless days.

  A servant opened the door at Julian's ring. Behind him, one hand braced against the stair's balustrade, stood a small, hawklike figure of a man, his shoulders permanently rounded, burdened with the weight of his years. He held out his other hand in welcome to his visitor, and Julian quickly stepped forward, introducing himself, murmuring his gratitude for his reception.

  "My pleasure, young man." Old Cuddington's voice was high and weak. A new and maddening unsteadiness had lately gripped him now that he could no longer see clearly. He'd ordered that nothing in the rooms of his home be changed, so he made his way about easily—his hands touching here and there for the comforting reassurance of the family furnishings. He pointed out to Julian certain handsome family pieces or delicate ornaments that had accompanied him to the New World so long ago. Julian was properly appreciative; there had been many pieces like them at Fairhaven.

  He gripped James Cuddington's bony arm and guided him toward the front parlor, where the servants were to bring refreshments. He settled the old man in a chair facing the fireplace and looked around him. The handsome room was resplendent in a fresh coat of yellow paint. He savored its spaciousness, the fading light from the garden bordering on two sides, the handsome arrangement of the furniture and objects of which his host was so proud. And then, as if impelled by a magnet, he turned to look at the portrait over the fireplace. Its impact on him was almost physical.

  Julian was beset by dozens of conflicting emotions. The yellow room and everything in it faded. The sound of James' voice as he talked to the servant and the man's soft replies—all faded as Julian's eyes met the gray gaze of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She was magical. The soft skin on her face, arms and the shoulders bared beneath the golden chain with its huge hanging pearl, took on the rosy duskiness of a peach at the height of ripeness. Julian had often seen fruit of just that hue in his father's orchards. The deep cleft in the chin and the winged black brows were distinguishing; the candid gaze seemed almost questioning. What are you trying to tell me? He almost blurted the words aloud. His eyes were drawn to that silvery nimbus of hair; he'd never seen hair that color. Surely the artist must have taken liberties? Immediately, he

  felt himself seemingly reproved and wrenched his gaze away from hers to look at her magnificent setting. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen; even the rooms of the beautiful James River plantations didn't resemble the room in the portrait.

  Old James wanted to talk, and Julian tried hard to listen; he could sense the old gentleman's loneliness. Though his eyes continued to wander to the portrait, he answered James' questions soberly and seriously. He accepted the wine and biscuits the servant brought before laying a fire against the chill that always came when the sun went down. At one point his eyes strayed to the portrait again, and once more the sound of his host's voice seemed to vanish. When the old man reached out to touch him questioningly, Julian said, truthfully, "It's the portrait, sir. I've never seen anything like it. The young lady is enchanting . . . quite beautiful."

  "Enchantress—that's it!" James Cuddington chuckled. "You've hit it right on the head, young Cushing! She was an enchantress, although I think 'witch' would have been more appropriate during her time. But I've always loved her." He chuckled again as he bit into a biscuit and raised his glass in salute to the portrait. Julian smiled and did the same.

  The old man told him the portrait came from London—from Cuddington House in the Strand. How, as a second son, he'd taken his inheritance and some fine family antiques to make his fortune in the New World. There he had hoped to grasp at an elusive independence and power denied him in England, where the laws of primogeniture decreed that everything go to his older brother, Richard. James recalled his earlier years in the Colony. He'd worked hard, he said, setting up a small iron foundry in the hinterlands northeast of Jamestown which had prospered beyond his wildest expectations. He'd made a good life for himself and his family. Now his sons supervised the business; his daughters had married and gone off into the wilderness to rear their own families.

  As he spoke, James noticed how Julian's eyes kept returning to the portrait. All his life he'd cherished it despite the "taint"—something concerning witchcraft—that had clung to the sitter. Chloe Cuddington was her name, he told his entranced visitor. The portrait had been a great favorite of his wife's, whose own red-haired beauty had been the equal of the stunning creature in the gilded frame. How well he remembered the room where it had been paintedl The fireplace had been there during his youth. The little

  portrait within a portrait showed the house's exterior. It had mellowed with the years, of course, but the black iron railing was still strong, and his father had had the paint on the coat of arms renewed regularly. It was all as intact in his memory as the day he'd left it forever in 1649—nearly fifty years before—when the house was almost one hundred and thirty years old.

  James then explained that he liked to keep abreast of the papers and broadsheets sent to him from his Jamestown office and his London agent Julian tore his eyes from the portrait and obligingly spent the next hour reading. When he saw weariness descend on his host, he suggested he come the following day at the same time. James smiled and waved his visitor away.

  He hoped young Cushing had not been bored, for he'd enjoyed his visit. He sipped his wine while gazing at the portrait with much the same earnestness as Julian had. The room was warm, lit only by the firelight Chloe gazed at him with those incredible gray eyes; it seemed almost as if she were trying to tell him something. As an old black servant padded in to refill his glass and put another log on the fire, James Cuddington wondered at the portrait's fate. He'd taken extremely good care of it during the years of his stewardship. He didn't want it moldering in the damp of a son's riverfront mansion or at the mercy of careless indifference in a daughter's rustic home far inland. He was still looking at the portrait when the wine and warmth overtook him and he fell asleep. He awakened a half hour later to a deepened dusk within the room and the knowledge that Chloe Cuddington was going home. He was convinced that somehow—in some way he couldn't explain—the decision had been made for him while he napped.

  For Julian, the Cuddington house on Francis Street soon became the focal point of his day. Within a week of their first meeting the young boy and the older man were great friends, and it seemed natural to both for Julian to appear in the late afternoon for wine and biscuits. Always they sat in the parlor before a fire, and he'd read James his mail and whatever he thought might interest him in the packet of books and papers. Then they'd talk. Old Cuddington had a remarkable memory and a wide-ranging mind—the result of a lifetime interest in history, art his English home, the beauties of the Continent which he'd visited in his youth, as well as his earlier

  years in Virginia. More than once it occurred to Julian that he was getting a far greater education at old Cuddington's elbow than he'd ever acquired in the schoolroom at Fairhaven.

  There was another reason for his eagerness to visit the Francis Street house each day. Several times, on his arrival, he'd seen James Cuddington, well wrapped against the chilly weather, dozing in his garden. Putting fingers to lips to warn the servant who opened the door, Julian would go to the parlor, seat himself in old Cudding-ton's chair and had often as much as half an hour to sit in solitary adoration at
Chloe Cuddington's feet.

  He never tired of the portrait: at times it seemed he'd stepped into the frame and was there in those beautifully spacious surroundings. He could hear the busy river traffic and, inside, the soft scratching of the palette knife or the whisk of the artist's brush as he committed that remarkable beauty to canvas. What had she been like? Julian's eyes lingered on the folded hands, serene and graceful against the peach velvet of the gown. Had she been complacent? Smug? Dull? Immediately, he felt guilty at his own thoughts. He would then seek her gaze, finding amusement and sympathy there as if she, too, enjoyed the game. He wondered how tall she'd been and how she'd moved. Quickly and impatiently, yet graceful? Or awkwardly—all in a hurry-perhaps even shyly? The straight little shoulders indicated a good carriage, and Julian decided she'd moved . . . proudly. Odd he should use that word, for the girl gave no indication of arrogance. Confidence, perhaps, but not arrogance.

  Inevitably, after a few moments, he gave it up. The beautiful enigmatic creature had become an obsession. He often dreamed of Chloe at night—dreams he wouldn't have divulged to a living soul. In one, they rode together over green fields which he knew he'd never seen, but which were somehow familiar. Once they'd come upon an old abbey that Julian was certain he'd seen in the books lost in the Fairhaven fire. At other times they were in a large comfortable boat skimming a great river.

  The most significant dream was one in which he stood in the midst of a ruin attempting to dispose of something without Chloe Cuddington—whom he sensed was nearby—learning of it. All too soon he would awaken whenever the dream's significance seemed about to be disclosed. Often, it took several moments for the impressions to fade completely, and as he dressed and breakfasted, his

  mind was leaping ahead to that hour when he would present himself at Francis Street and once more be with his beloved. As ridiculous as it seemed, he'd fallen in love with an improbable beauty in a hundred-and-fifty-year-old painting, and there seemed little he could do about it. Except wait for that session each afternoon so he might gaze on her loveliness again.

  James Cuddington recognized the young man's infatuation with the subject of the portrait; he'd suffered a similar malady all his life. He told Julian how, when his inheritance had been parceled out, he'd been prepared to sacrifice it all if only he might have the portrait. Miraculously, it had come his way with little family protest. He well remembered the room where it had been painted—that was old Durham House outside the window. There, during the years before Cuddington House had been built, young Catherine of Ara-gon, Henry VIII's first queen, had lived as a penniless and often hungry princess. Later, when Chloe had been much at court with her husband, who was a well-known painter, it had been occupied by Sir Walter Raleigh. Cuddington House had looked the same the day he'd left for the New World. He was sure it was still the same now that another Cuddington owned it, although the family spent a great deal of their time at Sparwefeld, a medieval house in Surrey that had been in the family for nearly two hundred years.

  Julian was curious to learn of old Cuddington's history. James told him the major family lands had been taken by Henry VIII so that he might build a palace in an area convenient for his hunting. "Seems he didn't have enough palaces already"—the old man sniffed—"and he had to take our holdings, and we'd had them nearly five hundred years!" Cuddington said he could remember his grandfather telling him what distress the king's confiscation had caused, for he'd heard it from his father, who'd been a famous painter and had been alive when it happened. Henry had given the Cuddingtons adequate lands elsewhere, of course, but things had never been the same. The king had torn down their ancestral home, swept away Cuddington village, destroyed the church and nearby priory—all to build Nonsuch Palace. James Cuddington's bony hands shook with anger as he retold the story he'd not thought of for years.

  Julian was intensely interested at the mention of Nonsuch. He remembered his childhood fancy with the sketch of the palace. How often he'd pored over that print! How familiar he was with

  the towers, trees, paths and gardens to the front—and how he'd let his imagination roam to whatever might be in the rear! He'd peopled the buildings with kings and queens, dukes and duchesses. Julian wondered—had Chloe Cuddington ever been to Nonsuch? Had she sat with the Virgin Queen in the inner court, being entertained by minstrels and mummers on a soft spring eve? Had she seen it in all its glory, with pennants flying, that echoing trumpet chamber sending rolling silvery notes to every corner of the garden, meadow and fields? If she'd been a favorite of Elizabeth's, she must have. Soon Chloe and Nonsuch were one: enchanting, timeless— and unattainable. Both had one thing in common; they inspired, even as they frustrated.

  James Cuddington fanned Julian's interest in his faraway family at Sparwefeld and Cuddington House in the Strand. There were few who wished to listen to an old man's reminiscences, and the boy was obviously enthralled. In talking with Julian, he himself could recapture happy moments he'd thought lost forever. He was amused at the depth of Julian's fascination with the portrait, and soon the idea of using that interest in a way advantageous to them both came to him. He bided his time with the patience of age. Caution was now important; he mustn't scare the young man away.

  As for Julian, he tried in every way he knew to reciprocate and please James Cuddington. Not only was the position financially rewarding, but he had an affectionate regard for his employer. Old Cuddington insisted that Julian come to him for the feast of Christmas, and what might have been an intolerably lonely day was spent at Francis Street, where, after an inspiring service at the new Bru-ton Parish Church, they all shared a great repast. After the meal everyone sang hymns and carols. James' daughter played the pianoforte, and there was dancing to the music of a fiddler from the backcountry whom she'd brought along for the festivities.

  Walking home, full of good food and the warmth of his acceptance within the family, Julian wondered how he could repay his employer. Often, as he corrected the students' papers in the cold, bare little room at the back of the college, he'd wonder what he could discuss the following day that would interest James. It was then he remembered Amos Cushing's Journal which his cousin had given him, and he carried it on his next visit to Francis Street. James not only had recognized the Cushing name, but had spoken fervently of his admiration for men like old Amos and those face-

  less others who'd endured the hardships of the founding years. It was all there in the Journal-how Amos Cushing, late of the Isle of Wight, had, in 1606, sailed in the Susan Constant for a long, hazardous eighteen-week voyage. He described movingly the trials that beset the settlement established in the spring of 1607 on a flat peninsula on the north side of a river they'd called the James. Amos complained of the boggy soil and the deadly mosquito but praised it for its defensible position—important in the days of the Spanish plunderers. The settlers worked hard, copying the Indian methods of planting corn, beans and squash and building plaited reed dams to trap fish. They'd cut trees, pitched tents, made clapboards, dug gardens and mended nets. Soon a triangular fort, built of rough-hewn timber from the adjacent forest, faced the river. Inside, crude houses and storage bins were erected, and two months after landing the first communion rites of the Church of England were celebrated in the small church that stood at one end of the fort area. Amos had survived the "Starving Time" during the winter of 1609-10 that winnowed out the weak, and those who remained, their faith in God still strong, worked harder than ever. By 1622 Amos had brought his wife and sons from England and erected a little clapboard house, Fairhaven, on his one hundred acres along the James River. He'd died in 1657, only eight years before James Cuddington arrived in the Colony.

  Julian remembered those years at Fairhaven before the dreadful fire—his father had added to the house, making it more comfortable and gracious than in old Amos' day. He told James Cuddington his favorite place had been the Cushing wharf, where his black nurse, Tabby, would take him so he might mingle with the blacks who boarded ships for Engl
and and the Continent. The sight, sound and smell of the foreign fired Julian's imagination, and he dreamed that one day he, too, might board a great vessel with its brightly colored pennants and discover the water route to the wonders of Cathay and Muscovy.

  So while they sipped claret and munched biscuits, Julian read the Journal, which he hadn't seen since he was a child. As he turned the pages of strong, slashing handwriting and as the words rolled from his tongue, he felt himself moved with a new respect for his family's founder.

  James Cuddington sensed his young companion's feelings. As Julian gathered up the yellowing sheets and stuffed them between

  two linen boards which made a press, he asked curiously, "Have you ever thought of visiting England, Julian?"

  Julian answered truthfully that such a trip might have been possible at the end of his college years had his father remained alive, but it was now out of the question. "But of course, I would like to go, sir," he said. "I think there are a good many Cushings on the Isle of Wight, and since I have no one left here . . ." His face darkened, and he remained silent.

  "Well, we won't discuss it anymore, young Cushing." The elder man understood Julian's sadness. He stood up, holding out an arm for his companion's firm grip. "Come again tomorrow, my friend. You've paid me a great honor to read to me from your family's Journal. My respect to the Honorable Amos!" He laughed his high, weak laugh and then, changing his mind, indicated his chair. "I think I'll just stay here, Julian, until it's time for my supper. I might even doze a bit."

  Moments later when he heard the front door close and the sound of footsteps going past the window toward the picket fence gate, he relaxed in the chair and gazed upward in the direction where he knew the portrait of Chloe Cuddington to be. Though all he could see was a blur, the memory of the incandescent beauty was vivid in his mind. He raised a thin, trembling hand to her and said, "Now patience, m'dear. Patience. You've done your part, and I think you're going to have your way. Just as you always have." He chuckled at his words.