The Best of Men (61 page)

“Tomorrow? He is far too weak to go anywhere.” Ingram agreed privately, as they took off the rest of Beaumont’s garments. “He shall stay here with me until he is able to complete his journey,” she declared, pulling the bedclothes over her patient and rearranging the pillow beneath his head. “Walter,” she resumed, more quietly, “Why has Sir Bernard not once written to his wife since she last saw him? I consider it remiss, for a newlywed husband. She wrote several times, but this month she held back – to know for certain whether she was with child. Which she is.”

“How wonderful!” Ingram hugged his aunt again. “He’ll be overjoyed, as am I.”

“Tell him that he should convey his joy to Kate, or else she may become so jittery as to miscarry. I can’t answer for her moods and she has been stranger than ever, since the holiday at Newbury.” Ingram
tensed, recalling his conversation with Kate about the steward’s visit. “By the bye,” Aunt Musgrave said, breaking in on his thoughts, “is our Mr. Beaumont aware that you are in love with his sister?” Ingram gaped at her. “Oh Walter, any idiot could tell. At Christmas you mentioned Anne Beaumont’s name so many times that I was getting bored with the sound of it.”

“Might
she
have guessed?”

“If she has a woman’s instinct. Will you make her an offer?”

“How can I? I’ve no fortune. And the Beaumonts are such a grand family. They can trace their line back to the Normans.”

“Pah,” she said, “that’s nothing. Ours goes back to Adam and Eve. Faint heart never won fair maid. What have you to lose by asking, save a little pride?”

When Madam Musgrave woke Laurence the next day, he felt an initial confusion on seeing her; his arrival the night before had been quite a blur to him thanks to Seward’s medicinal skills.

“Good morning to you,” she said. “Walter looked in on you earlier. He didn’t want to rouse you to say goodbye. He’s gone back to Oxford. You’re to rest here, Mr. Beaumont, and only when you are better should you attempt the journey home.”

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful.

She reached below the bed and held out a chamber pot. “A man should not go so many hours without answering the call of nature.” He took it, hesitantly, much to her amusement. “Bashful, are you? You’ve not much left to be shy about with me, sir – I undressed you last night. What a beating that wretch must have given you,” she added, shaking her head.

“Ingram told you, then,” Laurence remarked, wondering what precisely his friend had said.

“A very little of it. Now, you need some peace and quiet. It will be my privilege to have you as a guest after all you did for Walter and his broken leg. Besides, Kate will be glad of some younger company.”

“Lady Radcliff is still at the house?”

“She is. We came back together after spending Christmastide at Newbury.” Madam Musgrave threw up her hands. “She is with child, and utterly miserable at not hearing from her husband in so long.”

What had happened to him, Laurence wondered; had Pembroke decided to make an end of him after receiving that painting?

“Can you manage on your own?” said Madam Musgrave, indicating the pot. “I could send my butler to assist you.”

“Oh no,” Laurence answered, smiling, “that won’t be necessary.”

With Clarke and Earle, Seward arrived promptly at the university hall that had been assigned as a courtroom, but they had to sit waiting until well past the appointed hour for the trial to begin. Spectators were still filing into the galleries and the lawyers were busy in consultation. Seward saw Mistress Savage take her seat beside a blond young man he guessed to be Captain Milne. Near Milne were several of the soldiers from the Castle, all witnesses for the prosecution, Seward assumed. On one side of the room were Falkland, his lawyers, and the officers of the court, on the other side the jury, and between them the judge on his dais. The gallery above was packed with courtiers, mostly ladies dressed as if for an entertainment.

The noise of the crowd fell to murmuring as Hoare was marched into the dock, accompanied by an armed guard. Seward felt a surge of anger, then an unsettling puzzlement: Hoare showed no fear, but defiance, more like a commanding officer than a prisoner awaiting trial on hanging charges; and as these were read out by the clerk, he looked over calmly at Falkland.

Hoare stood accused of murdering Charles Danvers, causing severe bodily harm to Laurence Beaumont, and malignant tampering with Lord Falkland’s correspondence in order to defame him and subvert his authority. Hoare submitted a plea of not guilty. The prosecutor next embarked on an elaborate speech to the jury, detailing dates and times, the witnesses who would be brought to testify, and depositions to be presented. The prisoner would speak in his own defence, and call those witnesses of his own who might disprove the case against him. Laurence and Thomas Beaumont were both on his list.

By two o’clock, however, the prosecutor had yet to finish his speech, no witnesses had been sworn in, and the jury was becoming restless. The judge announced that the court would adjourn and reassemble in an hour. As the galleries emptied, Seward glimpsed Mistress Savage coming through the crowd towards him. He signalled that he would follow her, and made his excuses to Clarke and Earle before joining her outside.

“How is Mr. Beaumont?” she inquired, with no perceptible emotion.

“He has been recovering at his family home,” Seward replied, continuing more honestly, “He still has no idea of all that you did to help him.”

“Let us keep it that way. Falkland must wish that he were here, more than ever.”

“Why so?”

As she bent her head towards him, Seward scented again the expensive perfume that he had once noticed on Beaumont’s clothes. “Doctor, this too should be a secret between us, with one exception: Mr. Beaumont needs to know of it. Digby informed me that His Majesty is sending a Commission of Array to London, authorizing all citizens opposed to Parliament to take up arms for the royal cause. The plan was hatched last year, but the time did not seem opportune to execute it. Now His Majesty believes that the Queen’s recent arrival in England will stimulate an
upsurge of enthusiasm in the capital, and win over those who are still hesitant to join him. In Parliament, Edmund Waller has undertaken to act as an intermediary between the citizens and any members of the Lords or Commons who would declare for the King. And Falkland has accepted to organize the correspondence between Oxford and London.” She stopped, regarding Seward with her intense hazel eyes. “Perhaps His Majesty was inclined to test him, by assigning him such a vital role in the uprising. It is likely to come to fruition in May.” “A perilous endeavour,” observed Seward.

“And what occurred to me is this: to whom may Falkland turn, to manage these secret communications?” Beaumont, Seward thought; and how difficult it would be for him to refuse this other duty, since he had shown himself so keen to assist Falkland with the conspiracy. “Yes,
him
,” she said, in a whisper. “He has proved that he can be trusted, under the greatest duress. If only he were not so useful.” Abruptly she put on a smile, which Seward guessed was for the benefit of Digby, who was strolling up to them.

“What sublime weather!” Digby cried. “More like July than the middle of March. Who is your distinguished companion, Isabella?”

“Digby, may I present Dr. William Seward of Merton College.”

Digby examined Seward with interest. “I have heard of you, sir. Are you not renowned for your knowledge of astrology?”

“It is one of my pastimes, my lord. I cannot claim any expertise.”

“Oh no? In any case, it seems a tricky business. Her Majesty the Queen consulted astrologers before setting sail for the English coast, and they warned her against making the journey because of some unfavourable conjunction of the planets. But she prayed to our Lady of Liesse,
et voilà
, she was safely delivered to our shores.”

“A happy miscalculation on the part of her astrologers.”

“Or else divine intervention. Isabella, should I ask Dr. Seward to see into your stars?”

“Please don’t,” she said, with a bright laugh. “I prefer to be surprised by fate.”

“As do I,” Digby concurred. “Is Dr. Seward preparing you to take a place at Merton? With her brains,” he said to Seward, “she could outwit any of our undergraduates.”

“The day has not come when women are allowed such a privilege,” she murmured.

Nor will it ever, thought Seward, if there is a God in heaven.

“If it does, I worry for us men,” laughed Digby. “Doctor, have you had a chance to read a copy of my new broadsheet,
Mercurius Aulicus
?”

“I have not.”

“Its concerns are more mundane than the rotations of the planets, but it is informative nonetheless. I shall have the latest issue delivered to Merton, if you like.”

“I thank you, my lord.”

“So what’s your opinion, will Colonel Hoare be spared a traitor’s death?”

“I hope not.”

“I wonder why Mr. Beaumont is not in attendance,” Digby said to Mistress Savage. “I thought he’d have liked to see his foe brought down.”

“Digby,” she said, taking his arm, “listening to all these speeches has given me a terrible thirst. Let us find some refreshment before we return to the courtroom.”

“Certainly, my dear. We shall see you in there, Doctor,” Digby called back to Seward, who bowed and watched them go, chatting merrily as if they had not a care in the world.

On his third morning at Faringdon, Laurence could play the invalid no longer; he had only ten more days to find Radcliff’s letters. When Madam Musgrave poked her head into his room late in the afternoon
to ask how he was, he announced that he wished to dress and come downstairs. She looked surprised, but later expressed her great pleasure as he descended on trembling legs, disappointed at how much weaker his muscles were after being bedridden again.

She invited him to the fireside, advancing his chair nearer to the blaze.

“Has Lady Radcliff had any word from her husband yet?” he inquired, with an air of polite concern.

“She has not, poor girl,” said Madam Musgrave, “though Walter must have told him her news by now. I urged her not to worry too much, sir. Nothing can be amiss with him or else Walter would have informed us, even if Sir Bernard has not the grace to write himself.”

There was a pause, during which Laurence searched for a way to steer the conversation towards his desired object. “You have a very beautiful house,” he remarked. “Has it been in your family long?”

“No, sir. My husband’s father, Marmaduke Musgrave, bought it upon its confiscation from a Catholic nobleman, back in the reign of Queen Bess. The fellow had apparently been plotting some mischief against her.”

“What happened to him?” Laurence asked, thinking of certain other conspirators.

“He and his wife fled to France. Others in their household were not so lucky. You see, Mr. Beaumont, the house was used as a refuge for priests sent from the Spanish Netherlands to convert us all back to popery. They had a priest’s hole built into the walls, and mass was held every Sunday in a bedchamber on the third floor, near the secret entrance. After they left, one of the priests was discovered, still hidden. A servant had betrayed him, and he was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn,” she concluded, with grim relish. “My servants believe that he haunts that chamber. They’ve heard knocking and the sound of footsteps.”

“Have
you
ever heard him?” Laurence said, smiling; he could not picture Madam Musgrave frightened by anyone, living or dead.

“No, but I rarely go up there; all those stairs are too much for my old knees. The last time was months ago, when I placed some valuables in the hole so that no soldiers from either army could come stealing from me.”

“Very wise. Soldiers are a greedy lot.”

They stopped talking as Kate entered the hall, and Laurence rose to bow. She appeared to him as haunted as any spectre, with dark circles about her eyes and a blotched, unhealthy complexion.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in a rather accusatory tone, “you must be much better.”

“I am, thank you, Lady Radcliff,” he said, faking a wince as he sat down again.

“Such a change we’ve wrought in him since he arrived,” Madam Musgrave observed, beaming at him. “We were just speaking of the priest’s ghost, Kate. Have you been witness to his knockings and bangings?”

“I have not, Aunt, and I hope I never am,” Kate answered, her face grave.

“We must ask Sir Bernard, the next time he calls on us, if he saw any strange apparition when he put his coffer in there,” said Madam Musgrave, winking at Laurence, who could hardly believe his ears. Then her expression changed and she flushed a bright pink.

“What coffer?” Kate asked, frowning at her.

“Oh my dear,” she exclaimed, “I was not supposed to tell you!” Laurence glanced from Kate to her, tantalized, waiting for her to continue. “He left it with me last September. He said it contained some family relics from Longstanton, and a present that he wished to give you on your next birthday. He wanted to surprise you with it. How indiscreet I’ve been! Promise you won’t say a word to him about this?”

“Certainly, Aunt,” Kate said, after a hesitation.

“You know, Kate,” Madam Musgrave went on more softly, “when
we were in fear of his life after Edgehill, I was tempted to fetch it for you anyway, in case he might have stored a copy of his will there, which he would have been sensible to do.”

Kate nodded; her eyes were now on Laurence.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her, as though to resume a lighter conversation.

“I do, sir,” she replied. “The Bible tells us there are such things, that can be raised by witchcraft.”

“Hmm. Well God knows, I’ve seen enough dead people, but not one has come back to haunt me.”

“You should spend a night in the hole, sir,” suggested Madam Musgrave, in her former bantering tone, “and try to catch the spirit at his pranks!”

“I should,” Laurence agreed, thrilled at the ease with which he might achieve his goal. “You must take me there some time.”