by Mary Luke
Fifty years old, Andrew remembered. She had been a long time without her Thomas. . . .He turned to the next brass:
Bartholomew Penn, beloved husband of Chloe Cuddington Penn. A Sergeant-Painter to His Majesty, King Henry VIII, and decorator of Nonesuch Palace. Born Amsterdam, Holland, March 3,1515. Died November 9,1568.
Only several months after he'd written that stirring defense of his adored wife, Andrew realized and felt his eyes smart. You were not without your Chloe too long, Master Penn, only two years.
His reverie was interrupted by a scratching noise, and he realized he was no longer alone. Quickly, he stepped behind a pillar, resentful of the intrusion. A clear voice rang out. "Come along, Richard, do! Don't lag, child. . . . We haven't got all day. Set up your things right here—I think you'll be able to do the angel quite nicely. Is this all right?"
Andrew stood, rooted to the spot. It was a woman speaking, and she was garbed in the shapeless trench-type coat, the "mac" so beloved of the British, with a woolen tam-o'-shanter over her fair hair. That hair. . . . Andrew felt a clutching at his innards, for nowhere had he ever seen hair like that except in Chloe Cuddington's portrait. He pressed against the pillar, excited and apprehensive. A child, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, came into view, carrying a sketching pad in his hands. A handsome child, reminding Andrew
of someone. Then the thought hit—suppose it was her child? Richard, she'd said. That's something he hadn't counted on. She might already be married, and this could be her child.
Andrew stayed behind the pillar while the boy spread out his materials. The girl had her back toward him as she helped the child off with his coat. Then, straightening up, he could see the pure profile, turning now, so almost three-quarters of her features were visible. He noted the strong line of the jaw and the merest hint of the deep cleft in her chin. Her dark eyebrows and lashes were vivid against the ivory skin and the colored light that streamed in from the windows. The blond hair was a close-cut cap about her head. Other than that, she was identical to the portrait. Taller, possibly, than he'd imagined she might be, which was hardly surprising. The human species had grown by many inches and pounds in the past four hundred years.
Andrew remained in the pillar's shadow, feasting his eyes on the loveliness he'd memorized, still unable to grasp the fact that here was the girl he'd dreamed of in the flesh. He longed to approach her and say, "Look here, you and I know each other very well. Please believe me, my darling, and don't think me an utter fool. If you'll just give me time, I'll tell you the whole story."
But for the moment, he merely stood there, awestruck at Chloe Cuddington incarnate. Slowly, she walked beneath the windows, her small feet neatly shod in low-heeled pumps, her legs slim and beautiful. Andrew thought with quiet humor that he had one advantage over Julian and Thomas—they'd never seen her legs! She seemed familiar with the church, stopping to straighten an altar cloth and poke among a vase of flowers set in the baptistry. She moved gracefully and—Andrew sought the word— proudly. Just as Julian had said.
He wondered what he should do. If she kept walking as the child worked, eventually she'd come upon him hiding like an idiot behind the pillar. He wanted to rush and take her in his arms and ask if she knew him. And how would that appear? Take it easy, he told himself. Don't blow it now—there's a lot riding on this first impression. But what could one say to this Girl for All Seasons? That she has to like you or else four hundred years of love, tragedy and waiting have all been in vain?
Only a few feet away, she stopped near the Cuddington burial vaults. Her face was hidden in the shadow cast by the angel's wing-
spread. He thought she was about to return to where the child was sketching when she said quite clearly, "You don't have to stay behind that pillar. The church is open to everyone."
Andrew's jaw dropped, and he stepped out into the dusty light, feeling stupidly foolish. The child looked up briefly to see who she was addressing. "I was afraid to startle you, that's all," Andrew said. "I thought I'd keep out of sight, and you'd go right on out. Then, instead, you stayed. I didn't know." . . . He was sounding like a nincompoop, rattling on like that, but so amazed was he at her sudden appearance and her words, he could think of nothing else to say. It wasn't the way he'd planned it. He'd hoped to be very much in command of the situation. Instead, it appeared to be the other way around.
And then she smiled, and Andrew could only hope he didn't look as ecstatic as he felt, for he'd never seen Chloe Cuddington smile. So used was he to that level, piercing gaze that the sudden crinkling of the large dark eyes and the relaxing of the wide mouth other strong white teeth astonished him.
"That was considerate of you, very. I saw you from across the street when you parked your car. I was going to leave Richard here while I did some errands on the High Street. I came in . . . because ... it seemed to me for a moment you were someone I knew. Now I know I was wrong. You're an American?" She held out her hand. "Welcome to Ixworth."
"I'm Andrew Moffatt." He took the strong slim hand, delighting in its warmth. "Yes, I'm an American. But one very much at home in England. I've spent a great deal of time here."
"Well, welcome again, Mr. Moffatt. My name is Chloe Cuddington. This is my nephew. Richard!" Her voice took on a stern timbre. "Mind your manners, Richard. At least look up and say hello!" The boy raised his head and smiled graciously, nodding in their direction and then went back to his sketching. "He's an absolute nut where his art is concerned. We humor him, however, for he's actually very good for his age."
"You live in the manor house, Miss Cuddington?" Andrew hoped he sounded properly surprised. "Odd—that's where I was bound when I passed this church. And never can I resist a small ancient country church."
"You were coming to the house? What on earth for?" The strong, winged brows were questioning arcs. Well, now, thought Andrew,
there's the rub. What could he say? Then, smoothly and glibly, he heard himself explaining, "I wish to see the portraits by Bartholomew Penn which I understand are there. I was interested in his tomb, here." He nodded in the direction of the burial vaults. "I've seen quite a bit of his work in London and understand you also have some." Well, thanks, Bartholomew! Andrew was relieved.
"Why, yes." Chloe's voice was pleased, yet her face bore a puzzled expression. "You're sure what you've seen are authentic Penns? In London? We've tried for years to find more. I understand he was quite productive, in his day, but Christie's and Sotheby's haven't had any in years. We've a standing order."
My darling, Andrew wanted to say, you haven't had a chance because they're all hanging on the wall of a sweet little Surrey cottage that's over six hundred years old and belong to two charming and lovable older people who really don't know much about them except they've always been in the family. But you're going to love them—and they're going to love you. And so am I. . . .
"I've seen some in a little place near Nonsuch Park." He got no further, for Chloe had turned to him, her features pink with excitement.
"There are some Penns at Nonsuch? That might be where the family once lived. It's a long time ago, Mr. Moffatt, and you wouldn't be familiar with it. It sounds like a story made up for the unsuspecting tourist. But I think an ancestor of mine owned the land there."
"And King Henry took it all. Every last parcel and built Nonsuch Palace. Yes, Miss Cuddington, I do know the story! I think maybe I know it even a little bit better than you!" He saw her excitement turn to amusement. Now she's thinking I'm just another brash American, Andrew decided, but he didn't care. "You own Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth Cuddington, I believe."
"Well, it's amazing you should know, but yes, actually we do. They're considered Penn's finest."
Andrew wanted to say that wasn't what Penn himself had thought. Penn's finest is against a wall in Cuddington House, its frame split, its glorious canvas untouched, and it's of you, my darling. . . . He must have been gazing intently, for she said, looking a bit confused and bewildered, "You're sure we haven
't met before, Mr. Moffatt? You seem to know so much about us, I thought. . . ."
Suddenly, for the first time, Andrew felt confident. "Yes, we have
met before, Miss Cuddington. But it's been a long time, and I wouldn't expect you to remember. Do you think you might show me the portraits?"
She hesitated for only a moment. "Oh, well, if you say so. But you'll have to tell me sometime, for I don't remember. It must have been quite a long time ago." She smiled and held out her hand again. "Come along then, Mr. Moffatt, and see the Penns. We English must be neighborly to our cousins across the seal Richard, we're going back to the house. Mind you come home directly you're finished, d'you hear?" The child waved absentmindedly, absorbed in his work. As he went by, Andrew glanced at the drawing, intrigued. The child had done extraordinarily well and was completely engrossed.
Outside, there had been a quick shower, and as they emerged, the moist weak sunlight caught them unaware. Chloe took off the tam-o'-shanter and shook her fair hair which shone with crystalline brilliance. "That's better," she said, laughing as she turned to face him. Andrew caught his breath. The smile died on her lips, for there again was that intense, forceful light in the man's eyes. "We've met before, you say. Odd I can't remember. But that's the reason I went into the church—because I thought you were someone I knew. How long before you're going to tell me, Mr. Moffatt?"
"That depends, Miss Cuddington," Andrew replied, taking her arm purposefully as they walked along the High Street, "upon several things. But we have a good deal of time and mustn't hurry. It'll all come out one day. We can afford to wait." He smiled into the great dark eyes raised to his. "However, if you insist on an answer, I'll tell you when the time is right. And that may take . . . forever. Until, let's say, the end of time?"
Qhapter ^Jfwenty
Timothy Hodge read the letter from Andrew with great satisfaction. It was postmarked "New York City," where the Moffatts were closing up his apartment, preparatory to taking up permanent residence in England. Less than a month had elapsed since he and Andrew had found Bartholomew Penn's stirring "Defence," yet in that time Andrew had discovered Chloe, married her and brought her to Cuddington House. Rosa Caudle and she had taken one look at each other, embraced warmly, and together they'd all gone to Andrew's room, where she'd seen the portrait which might have been of herself.
"It was a moving moment, Tim," Andrew wrote. "I haven't played the tapes for her yet. It may be months—or years—before I do. But she's 'our' Chloe and my dearest wish is that you love her, too. I don't see how you can help it. When we return, we're going to live at Cuddington House. Soon, Rosa and Harry will want to retire, and I'm going to ask to buy it and we'll 'restore' it—properly. Already, they're talking of leaving Sparrow Field to the only remaining family member they know. Somehow it's all falling into place, and Chloe is back where she belongs—or soon will be. She loves Sparrow Field. She couldn't believe the Penns when she saw them. It has been as magical a time for her as for me. We can't wait to see you when we return, which will be very soon."
There'd been no time for Andrew and Timothy to discuss anything at first, so busy was everyone with passports, packing, marriage licenses and planning. More than once as he commenced reading the letter, it had occurred to Timothy that Andrew hadn't
mentioned the Lure. But then, at the bottom, had been a "'P.S.'" "Speaking of magic, read the London Times carefully each day now. They'll be making an announcement soon."
The announcement had been made that morning. Timothy picked up the Times from his desk to the marked article entitled "Important Acquisition at British Museum."
"An anonymous donor has made a handsome gift to the British Museum of an exquisite and rare pre-15th-century ornament in the shape of a golden pomegranate. Reputed to be a possession of Isabelle of Castile, it was brought to England as part of the dowry of Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII's first wife. From the time of her exile and death, however, the provenance of the jewel is extremely hazy.
The anonymous donor, who is thought to be an American, gave strong testimony that the pomegranate was genuine and had been discovered during the recent excavations of Nonsuch Palace, constructed by Henry VIII in the 1530s. As interest in the palace has been very great, discovery of the pomegranate has been opportune. Therefore, Museum officials have placed the object on display in the Main Rotunda, where a small especially constructed and lighted display case carries the identification of "The Nonsuch Lure."
The display will continue indefinitely, although the Nonsuch excavations themselves have been filled in for several weeks."
As he left the office, Timothy felt a strong urge to see Nonsuch once more. In moments he was in his car, heading in heavy traffic southward toward Ewell. Less than an hour later he stopped briefly at Sparrow Field's gate, thinking what it might become when Andrew and Chloe Moffatt ultimately owned it. Without any doubt, he knew the first thing Andrew would do would be to plant a beech tree in the center of a restored circle, and somewhere beneath it would be a bench. . . .
A few moments later, he parked outside the gates and walked slowly down the long treelined drive toward Henry VIII's outer court, on past the site of the clock that Julian and Chloe had marveled at in their imagination, toward that demon-haunted area near the old chancel. It was dusk, and he could envisage a monk and 135 girl together in the "wilderness," where the old fishpond had been.
In his mind's eye, he could see that same monk and a tall blond man hurriedly bricking up a wall in an area where the king would later store his wine. And where even now a holy man slept in eternal peace, undisturbed and undefiled.
But how Nonsuch had changed! Now there was nothing but new turf, raw and pale, covering the filled-in trenches. Great trees, descendants of those which had graced Cuddington village and the manor house park, soughed softly in the twilight. The caretaker's mobile home was gone, and the park now appeared smooth and undisturbed. In the coming spring it would be newly seeded and lush, and soon no trace would remain of the proud palace of Nonsuch, buried now, probably forever. It was no longer a place of magic, black or otherwise. Now it was only a green park, where tomorrow people would come to picnic and walk, to lie in the sun and read their newspaper. Perhaps a small boy might even fly a kite. . . .
Timothy walked back to the car feeling satisfied and, oddly, complete. As the great gate closed behind him, several lines flashed into his mind, and he wondered if the Bard had ever seen Royal Nonsuch:
". . .be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. . . ."
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(Continued from front flap)
Forced to follow the path along which destiny guides him, Andrew discovers not only the Lure and its secret, but also the stunning reality of a soul's immor
tality, and the haunting triumph of a love that has spanned 400 years.
Based on an actual incident during Tudor times, The Nonsuch Lure is a compelling love story, told with the consummate skill and human understanding which has marked the work of Mary Luke in her internationally acclaimed Tudor trilogy.
2 is the distinguished Tudor biographer whose trilogy, Catherine, the Queen, A Crown for Elizabeth, and Gloriana, The Years of Elizabeth I, has won her international acclaim. Now she brings the high sense of drama and her gift for historical detective work to this, her first novel, which begins in the modern era, moving back through pre-Revo-lutionary Virginia to Tudor times. In pursuing her research for The Nonsuch Lure, Mrs. Luke visited all the sites she evokes in her novel: London, Williamsburg, and Nonsuch Park in Surrey. Mrs. Luke lives in Ridgefield, Connecticut, and New York City.
Jacket design by Ben Stahl
Jacket typography by Cheryl Asherman
Portrait of the author by Clayton Evans, London
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
