by Mary Luke
where the trumpets' sound was so magnified—was the outer court The wall to the east abutted on the kitchen gardens, and Julian was touched to see clumps of herbs and wild flowers growing amid the overwhelming rubble.
The sun had climbed much higher—it was becoming increasingly warm. He turned toward where he thought Diana's Dike and the statue of the goddess had stood. There he'd plan a systematic, yet leisurely exploration. He'd see a little each day, examining everything thoroughly so that once he was back in Virginia, his memory would still be fresh and true. As he walked along, powdery swirls of dust, disturbed by his steps, rose about him and he felt a momentary sadness. Pausing to glance around, he thought, what beauty and elegance had once graced this spot! What magnificence now lay in ruins. . . .
As he approached what remained of the old wall that bordered on the "wilderness" where kings had kept aviaries and wild animals among the great overhanging trees, he heard an odd scraping sound. It came from just beyond the wall, and curious, Julian walked in that direction. The sound grew louder as he approached. Someone must be dragging an especially large stone toward a barrow. Quickly he rounded the wall and then stopped—thunderstruck—by what he saw.
Only a few yards away a young girl with her back to him was pulling an easel over a rubble-strewn path. Julian's first inclination was to rush and offer help. Yet he was powerless to do so. There was something familiar about the girl. She was slight, dressed in a simple pale-yellow gown, and a large-brimmed hat sat lightly on her hair. That hair. That was it. Of whitish silver, it curled just along the nape of her slim neck. The girl seemed in no hurry; she dragged the easel carefully and with such assurance Julian knew she'd done it many times before. Finally in place, she wiped her sweating hands on her dress, turned and faced him head-on.
He felt as if someone had given him a sharp blow directly in the pit of the stomach. The girl was identical to the girl in the portrait; her features were a living duplicate. Only her hair was shorter. She gazed at him with large gray eyes over which the winged black brows were raised in curious questioning. Julian was speechless. He raised a hand in disbelief, feeling he should rub his eyes to be certain he was not seeing a mirage, yet knowing he'd look foolish if he
did. As he waited, immobile, she advanced a few steps. The strong clefted chin was raised almost as if in challenge.
"Sir?" Her voice was low and soft, yet firm and with great self-confidence. Julian wanted to laugh aloud. It fitted the girl of the portrait so completely. The odd thought ran through his head: it almost seems as though she owns this place and resents my intrusion! She'd been about to paint; now he'd appeared on the scene, and she was probably wondering how to get rid of him.
Recovering his poise, though still shaken inside, Julian bowed deeply. "My apologies, mistress. I'm sorry if I startled you. My name is Julian Cushing, and I come from Virginia. I'm staying with friends quite nearby." He waved in the direction of Sparwefeld. Then, lamely: "This is my first visit to Nonsuch. I'm very desirous of seeing the ruins, for I've seen a picture of the palace as it once was."
The girl's expression softened, and the challenging look left her face. Slie seems almost protective of this place, Julian thought. Suddenly, she smiled, and all misgiving left him. So familiar was he with Chloe Cuddington's features in repose—with that deep, sweet gaze—that he was completely unprepared for this girl's sunny and carefree smile. Her strong white teeth gleamed in the shadow cast by the brimmed hat. There was humor and sparkle in the gray eyes; even the strong chin lost its belligerency. Suddenly, she swept him a deep curtsy and said, "You are most welcome to Nonsuch, Mr. Cushing." Rising, she clasped her hands in front and said, "I am Chloe Cuddington, sir, and I think you must be staying with my Aunt Rosa at Sparwefeld. She was naughty not to let me know. I think it must have been meant as a surprise! She said nothing when I saw her this morning after her arrival, and I left shortly to paint my tree at Nonsuch—she was in such a hurry to get me out of the house!" She smiled again and, with mock exasperation, said, "Yes, it was very naughty of Aunt Rosa, and I shall tell her so when I return!"
Julian now understood the sounds he'd heard. Chloe had probably come home after their arrival; likely she'd been out for an early ride, and Rosa—his perceptive, decisive Rosa—had decided to surprise them both! She'd urged him to visit Nonsuch when she knew her niece would be there. "You will find things little changed," she'd laughed. Now he more than ever appreciated her wit. He also understood the astonishment she and the servant, Temple, had
shown when they'd seen the portrait of the original Chloe at Cud-dington House. "An amazing likeness," he remembered her words. But she hadn't lied. When asked, "A likeness to whom?" she had instantly replied, "Why a likeness to-to-to Miss Chloe Cuddington, sir!"
Julian agreed their meeting was surely meant to be a surprise. Certainly old James Cuddington had had a part in it too. Doubtless he'd written his great-niece Rosa that his young friend, Julian, was showing all the youthful love pangs that had consumed numerous others on seeing the portrait of the infamous Chloe Cuddington. Possibly Rosa had written him of the peculiar physiological identity that had surfaced once more, and since Julian had agreed to return the portrait, James had kept secret the knowledge that there was another Chloe waiting at the end of his journey.
Chloe continued speaking, rescuing Julian from the immediate necessity of making any sense in his reply. He was grateful. He needed time to absorb the fact that here were the face and form of the girl who'd haunted his dreams for months. Now she was walking beside him, lovely and wholly unaffected. Each turn of her head, each glance and smile were pure joy; he almost felt as if a spell had been cast on him. She was taller than he'd envisioned Chloe Cuddington, with an agile and slim figure, undoubtedly the product of hours in the saddle. Yet she moved gracefully, and her bearing was—he sought the word— proud. Her fingers were long and supple; they gave him a clue and the courage to question her.
"You paint, mistress? That easel is heavy, but you handle it with great assurance."
"Ah, well, Mr. Cushing"—she sighed—"I try. Yes, I paint, but it is very frustrating at times, sir. I am—or was—going to paint that tree over there." She pointed to a graceful twisted old oak that hung partly over the crumbling wall, while its lower branches swept the ground. "I'm afraid the sun is too high now."
Julian apologized. "Mistress, I feel I have kept you from your work. Pray do forgive me. It is because I've been so spellbound by this magical place." He indicated the ruins. "I have longed to see it since I was a child. I hadn't expected so much to be left, yet I confess to great sadness in seeing such devastation."
"I agree, sir. . . ." Chloe paused reflectively, following his gaze. "I have often felt the same. There are men in the village who remember Nonsuch when it was all standing, and I can tell you,
Mr. Ciishing, it must have been a proud sight! Some of them who know Aunt Rosa well have escorted me about, telling me what everything was—sometimes it's easy to tell, sometimes not so easy. But in just a few years, much of it has disappeared. The poor of Ewell come here and take what they need for their houses. I can't say I blame them, but it does make for further destruction."
Suddenly, she brightened. "Sir, would you like to have what I call my Grand Tour? May I escort you on your first visit to Royal Nonsuch?" She laughed joyously, a high, tinkling laugh like her Aunt Rosa's, clasping her hands excitedly. "Now, Julian Cushing from Virginia, will you walk where kings and queens have walked? Are you ready to see Nonsuch as it was? Will you be able to visualize the proud towers with pennants flying and the fountain with water spouting high towards the sky? Will you be able to feel its magic and see how splended it was with all the fine people in their court dress? Tell me, Mr. Cushing—can you see in your mind as well as with your eyes?"
Julian was dazzled by Chloe's exuberance; he'd never met anyone quite like her. His confidence had returned, and with it an unusual feeling that this girl, tugging at his sleeve with infectious good hum
or, was not only a youthful beauty who intrigued his senses, but a friend and companion as well. And since friends and companions were of the spirit, there was little reason to dissemble. Julian did not.
"Mistress . . . Mistress Chloe ... if I may." He swept her a mock bow, amused at the startled look in her eyes at his easy use of her first name. "Mistress Chloe, in the New World we do not stand long on formality. And since I have won your trust and that of your family—pray, mistress, my name is Julian." And then, another bow: "I hope you will not think me overfamiliar, Mistress Chloe."
Relishing the moment, she sank to the ground in a deep curtsy. "All right, Master Julian, even though we may shock Madam Rosa!" She laughed aloud. "Now, sir, I am Chloe and you are Julian, and we will forget all about masters and mistresses and talk instead of kings and queens! You haven't answered my question, Julian—are you ready to see Royal Nonsuch?" She held out her hand.
Julian took the small hand in his. It was warm and pulsing—the very identical hand he'd admired so often in the portrait. He clasped the long fingers, gazing into the smiling gray eyes beneath
the strands of loose, silvery hair. "Chloe," he replied, "I am ready to see Royal Nonsuch." His voice was so sober and his gaze so intent her amused expression changed to a questioning one. "In fact," he finished, "I have never been more ready for anything in my life."
"We will start near the old Banqueting House," Chloe decided as she directed him away from the "wilderness." They plunged into a green area where grass grew between sunken paving stones along the path and the shrubbery was thick and rough. "This is where royalty had their refreshment before or after the hunt, where they had their masques and mummeries," she explained. The clearing was circled by tall chestnut trees whose very height prevented sunlight from entering. In the center was the remains of a polygonal brick retaining wall with bastions at four of its angles. "That's all that's left of the Banqueting House," Chloe said. "It was built of timber and approached by a ramp. An old man in the village said he remembered horses being led up the ramp to take part in the festivities inside I The house was several stories high, and there were little balconies in each of its four corners where people could look out at the beautiful view. He said at night lanterns or beacons were placed in the windows to guide people out of the 'wilderness.' " She sighed. "It must have been lovely to see. Something like the little summerhouse in the garden at Cuddington House— although, of course, much larger!"
Julian tried to picture the building. Part of the ramp was still in place, though any loose brick, tile or wood had long been carted away. There was thick grass in what had been the first floor, yet the irregular shape of the house was perfectly visible. "What revelry this place must have seen," he said almost to himself, "and now so quiet and still." He followed Chloe as she circled the foundation.
"It's not always so quiet," she replied thoughtfully. "There was a time when I brought my easel here, hoping to paint these ruins, but the place somehow seemed almost alive. I tried it only once—it's a long way to bring the easel. It's dark because of the trees, and the light is so poor. When I finally settled down to painting, I was so distracted I gave it up. I've not been back since."
"Distracted by what? What could distract you here?"
"I don't know. I never really saw anything—not even a bird,
which is unusual because birds are all over Nonsuch. But it seemed as if there were people rushing about, riding and calling to each other. There used to be a statue of Diana somewhere close by, near a stream that fed into a fishpond that belonged to the manor house at Cuddington. In the old days the queen used to hunt there. The times when I've been in here alone, it almost seems as if I can hear them shouting at the chase." She shivered. "I've always thought it's the only place at Nonsuch that's haunted." She glanced at him impishly and said, "Now, Master Julian, you'll tfiink me properly addled."
They left the clearing behind and approached a long treelined avenue ending in the palace ruins. The sun was high, and it cast shadows between the precisely straight row of old elms, which had grown to such a great size that in many places their branches met overhead. "That was the entrance to Nonsuch Palace," Chloe explained. And then, with mock imperiousness, she drew herself up straightly and, with a stiff bow, said, "This is the way it would have been for you, sir, if you'd come riding to Royal Nonsuch with the queen! You'd have come from London and ridden down this path to the gatehouse just there." She pointed to the right. "Of course, it would have been open and waiting for you because you were with the queen! Once inside, you'd have dismounted in the outer court, and servants would have been everywhere. . . ."
Suddenly, she grasped Julian's hand, and together they ran down the long drive between the trees, vaulting with youthful ease over the rubble marking the gatehouse's position. "Over there"—Chloe stopped to catch her breath—"there were the kitchens, and you may be sure they were busy! But you, sir, you've come with the queen—and would not pay any attention to kitchens!" Julian smiled and vigorously shook his head, joining in the fantasy. "Instead, more likely, you'd have been spellbound by the splendor of the middle gatehouse straight ahead. Shall we go, sir?" She held out her hand, he took her fingertips, and in silence they walked sedately, restraining their mirth until they reached a slight rise in the ground.
"Now up, sir, up eight steps, and here we are—at the middle gatehouse. Here we must . . . look up." Obediently, Julian looked at the bright sky. "There, sir," said Chloe, "is the finest astronomical clock in the land, grander even than the one at Hampton Court. It is painted light blue, but the hands and figures are gilded.
It has six golden horoscopes and chimes on the half hour. Can you see the clock, Julian?"
Julian's heart was racing. He could almost see the clock. He wouldn't have been surprised to hear silvery chimes echo among the rubble and earthy debris. Chloe continued. "There was an oriel window beneath it and a cupola above with a great bell. And statues everywhere. In the front near the Privy Garden were a great white Pegasus and an enormous marble obelisk from Romany. This gatehouse was the entrance to the royal apartments. The king's side was guarded by a statue of Scipio, clothed in bronze garments, and the queen's side by Penthesilea." Her brow clouded. "I don't know very much about Penthesilea—we'll have to ask Aunt Rosa."
"And did you know," asked Julian, "that here in the middle archway was an echo chamber that magnified the sound of trumpets every time the king or queen appeared?"
"Oh, Julian, that's wonderful I How do you know that?" They were through the archway debris, and Julian told Chloe about Mr. Percy's story. "There were probably lots of secret entrances and exits we'll never know about."
Chloe started ahead, eager to get to the towers, when Julian stopped her. To the left was a long rectangular section filled with an immense amount of debris. At his questioning look Chloe said, "That was the wine cellar. I guess with all the royal celebration, lots of wine was needed." As they walked on, Julian looked back at the mound. He felt an unaccountable urge to scrabble in the debris, to see what was underneath. Surely he'd find only broken bottles, flasks—perhaps some warped casks. Anything of value would have been taken by Barbara Villiers' workmen.
Almost at once they were at the site of the famous towers. Several feet of broken and jagged wooden frames with bits of slate and plaster were still visible, and Chloe explained about the famous panels. "There were figures of Caesar, the Greek gods, unicorns and dragons, soldiers and emperors—all bigger than life, and so beautiful even Mr. Pepys said it was a shame a museum could not have been found for them. He often visited here."
They had come almost full circle and were nearing the place where Chloe had left her easel. Walking across the inner court, Julian thought: how beautiful it must have been. Throughout the courtyard, grass grew where cobblestones had been ripped out; in a few years, it would probably be covered with weeds. How long
would it take to obliterate it entirely? The thought so depressed him he turned to Chloe, knowing her
bright beauty, the very miracle of her being there, would raise his spirits. It had been an incredible morning—one of the best of his life. He could hardly wait to thank Rosa and, later, to write James Cuddington, who was really responsible for it all.
James Cuddington was almost his last conscious thought. Suddenly, it seemed as though the earth were rocking beneath his feet, and while he knew he remained on the ground, his body seemed lifted and tossed. He felt as if he were being consumed by flames. From somewhere he heard a loud, agonized groan as he reached for what he knew to be the solid stone plinth. If only he could lie down on it. . . . Instead, the stone was red-hot, and he turned away, feeling buffeted and pummeled. The groans became louder, and something seemed to close about his throat. He groped for the buttons of his doublet; it was getting so tight. . . .
"Mr. Cushing! Julian! What is it?" From a long way off he heard the words. His eyes were closed—closed on a scene of purple and black and slashing yellow fragments. He felt his consciousness slipping away. A dragging sensation seemed to enclose his lower body.
"Julian—dear God—tell me what it is. Oh, help me . . . don't . . . oh, don't, sir." Those were the last words he remembered before a merciful darkness descended.
Gradually, his sight and senses returned. The dragging sensation had subsided, and he realized he was leaning against the tree where Chloe had propped her easel. A firm shoulder beneath his armpit seemed his only support. Dizzily, he attempted to stand upright, and the support gave way as Chloe solicitously turned him around and helped him to the ground. He felt a great urge to be sick in the grass and prayed, in the midst of his discomfort, not to disgrace himself in her presence. She was kneeling and helping him take off his doublet, and for the first time he realized he was sweating profusely.
