The Licence of War (23 page)

Draycott held up a hand. “You’ve lost me, sir.”

“On the
twenty-first
of October, an old lady was taken out of the house swaddled in blankets, and packed into the back of the cart. One of Mistress Edwards’ women drove off the cart.”

“The old lady was Mistress Edwards, I presume.”

“No, sir: Mistress Edwards was a little old lady. This one was tall.”

“Then … Beaumont was hiding at Mistress Edwards’, and got smuggled out.”

“And where does that leave us with Mr. Price?”

“He’s a true scoundrel. He’s about to inform on his friends, who abetted in Beaumont’s escape.” The coach made a sharp lurch, round Temple Bar into Fleet Street, and Draycott was thrown sideways against Veech, who thrust him violently away. “Excuse me,” he said, staggered by the fury on Veech’s face.

“That would be the most obvious explanation,” Veech said, calm again, as though nothing had happened. “But Mr. Price may be yet trickier. On the day you met him at Winchester House, he had come to visit a prisoner there, our Major Ogle, who is getting ready to fly the coop. And they had a very quiet chat together, Mr. Devenish said.”

“So what mischief is Price up to?”

“We must find out.”

“Will you arrest the occupants of Blackman Street?”

Veech rolled his eyes. “You and Mr. St. John both are so eager for arrests, when it’s the small fish that are bait to hook the biggest.” The coach had come to a halt. Draycott leant through the window; in the twilight he could discern a signpost, of a turbaned face in profile with a hawkish nose. “I’ll do the talking,” Veech said. “You listen, and learn.”

Laurence had much to say to his father, on the ride to Sir Harold Furnival’s house, and so he began at once. “I think you should profit from the break in hostilities over Christmas by hiding as much of your wealth as you can, as secretly as you’re able. You’ll need enough to support you to live in modest style for some years: gold, silver, jewellery – items that are portable and easy to conceal. Most of your servants would lay down their lives to protect you, but in the circumstances of war, you can’t rely on their discretion. As few of them as possible should know where your valuables are hidden. And in the last extremity, I’d recommend that you might go to France.”

Lord Beaumont frowned at Laurence as if he had proposed running naked through the streets of Chipping Campden. “I would rather be slain on my doorstep.”

“I hope Parliament would treat you more respectfully than that, and, in the event of His Majesty’s defeat, would pardon Tom. But I might not be as fortunate, given who
I
serve.”

“I never liked you in such work, even when you served Lord Falkland.”

Laurence refrained from pointing out how it was his father’s well-meaning suggestion that he seek employment with Falkland that had sucked him back into espionage, on his return from abroad. “Even sooner, you may need money to pay the fines that will be levied on you, should our part of Gloucestershire fall to the enemy. And you should be prepared for what may happen to the house.”

“Oh that I could wave a magic wand to render my marbles invisible, and my canvasses, and the books in my library,” Lord Beaumont lamented. “Your mother would say they are just things, yet they are beautiful things that represent to me what separates us from
the character of the beast
, as Aristotle so aptly named it. I shall talk with her after the wedding, about what might be stored away. Now do not press me any more, Laurence. You will find that Sir Harold and Lady Margaret keep a large household, in the old style – a contrast to ours, not that Penelope seems distressed by the prospect of life at Chipping Campden. She has paid us a few visits, and grown close to Elizabeth. She is a sociable girl.” He paused; and Laurence knew what was coming next. “You must forgive me, but I inquired of Ingram as to your relations with Mistress Savage, and he told me she had ended them. Is that so?”

“It is,” said Laurence shortly, and for the rest of their journey they discussed other matters: the estate, his lordship’s tenants, and Elizabeth’s interest in a second marriage.

Sir Harold’s was indeed a traditional country seat, from the crumbling stone archway bearing the Furnival coat of arms to the house itself, a timbered structure with diamond-paned windows and an overhanging thatched roof. The front doors opened directly into a hall festooned with ancient weapons, and the air was thick with smoke from damp wood smouldering in an enormous blackened fireplace. A couple of wolfhounds trotted up, slavering enthusiastically when Laurence patted their grizzled heads. He was surprised to see some thirty people assembled, most of them women and young girls, busy carding wool and spinning; tasks that Lady Beaumont assigned to her
servants. They all rose to curtsey, some of them clearly in awe of the new arrivals.

“Your lordship, Mr. Beaumont,” Sir Harold greeted them in a loud voice, striding up from his place by the fire. He had the rubicund complexion of a man who spent little time indoors, and his legs were as bandy as old Jacob’s from years in the saddle. His manner struck Laurence as simultaneously fawning and self-satisfied, and there was a glint of avarice in his eyes as he appraised his guests. When his remarks about Laurence’s prestigious service with the Secretary of State elicited no comment from Laurence, he turned his attention to Lord Beaumont. Laurence understood him: it did not signify whether he especially liked his future son-in-law; his daughter would be wife to the heir of a wealthy peer, and that was sufficient. Lady Margaret greeted them more timidly. She must have been as pretty as Penelope in youth, but her brow was now creased into an expression of permanent anxiety, and the way she deferred to Sir Harold suggested that she lived in fear of him.

“Pen is everyone’s favourite,” Sir Harold said, as the girl came forward. “She was even celebrated at Her Majesty’s Court, and cannot stop talking about her sojourn in Oxford. Her Majesty and Lord Jermyn showed her the greatest kindness …” Laurence’s gaze drifted as Sir Harold babbled on. A girl who resembled Penelope, but more humbly dressed, had risen from her spinning wheel. A sister, he assumed. Then Sir Harold distracted him, moving closer and talking in an even louder voice; and when Laurence looked again, she had disappeared. “We should let the young folk get acquainted,” Sir Harold told his wife and Lord Beaumont.

Penelope slipped her arm into Laurence’s and drew him a little aside. “You must find us very homely, Mr. Beaumont, after the splendours of Chipping Campden.”

He could think of nothing to say to this. He wanted to like her: Elizabeth’s friendship was a recommendation, and he could identify no flaw in her physically. Yet he could not help remembering the tiny
lines at the corners of Isabella’s eyes and mouth, witness to experience of both suffering and pleasure; and how the light would catch the gold in her irises and the copper in her dark hair.

“Sir,” said Penelope, in a consternated tone, “I believe your mind is elsewhere.”

“Oh no,” he assured her. “Tell me more about your time in Oxford.”

Unabashed by the presence of the Beaumont family, Madam Musgrave assaulted Laurence in the entrance hall at Chipping Campden and crushed him to her, momentarily depriving him of breath. He was delighted to see her unchanged, still wearing her stiff, outmoded gown and yellow ruff. “Mr. Beaumont, can it be that you are even more handsome than I recollect?” she said, in a voice as booming as Sir Harold’s, but far dearer to his ears. “Let’s have a proper kiss, you young devil.” And she smacked him on the lips. “Where is Walter’s sweetheart?” she demanded, and embraced Anne with the same gusto. “Mr. Beaumont and I plotted this match,” she informed Lord and Lady Beaumont triumphantly.

“Mr. Ingram and I are very lucky that you did,” Anne said, smiling.

“Madam Musgrave, you will be thirsty after your journey,” Lord Beaumont said, offering her his arm.

“I am, my lord,” she rejoined, seizing it, and swept him into the Hall. The other women followed, leaving Ingram, Richard, and Laurence behind.

Richard bowed to Laurence, for the first time in their unfriendly acquaintance. Laurence bowed also, but could not resist the urge to provoke. “Mr. Ingram,” he said, “I owe you an apology. From the day I met your younger brother at College, I have exerted an evil and debauching influence over him, for which, in the past, you quite correctly reproved me. And now I see the tragic consequences: he is
about to marry my sister. I don’t know how I can make amends.”

Richard blushed and stammered, “There is … really no need.”

Laurence and Madam Musgrave sat at cards into the early hours of the morning, long after the rest of the household had retired. His lordship’s butler had furnished them amply with Jerez, and a platter of almond tartlets on her special request, and they were both somewhat tipsy. Laurence was letting her win and she knew it, but she was enjoying herself too much to object.

As he dealt out a fresh round, she observed, “Human nature is a constant source of amazement to me, sir: that two children from the same issue as Walter should end up such prim, pious creatures! Richard is a conceited idiot with no head for business, and Kate behaves as though she has never broken wind in her entire life.”

“Perhaps she hasn’t,” said Laurence. “That would explain a lot about her character.”

“Ah well,” laughed Madam Musgrave, “I suppose we must forgive them. They were orphaned young, and Richard had to grow up fast, trying to be both father and brother. Mr. Beaumont,” she said, wiping her sticky fingers on the skirt of her gown, “I have the distinct impression that, unlike Walter and Anne, you are unhappy in love and in want of advice.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Laurence agreed, and confessed all.

“So it was Mistress Savage that we talked of at my house, when you asked if a woman could conceive after having a child torn from her womb.”

“And you said it might be possible.”

“But it may be only a faint chance, if you have not yet got a babe on her. She was wise to decline you. As for Mistress Furnival, give her children and she may be content to let you do as you please, if you’re discreet and don’t bring home any
gifts
from your travels,” Madam Musgrave went on, grabbing another tartlet. “I should not have to remind a man of your age and experience that few marriages begin
with love. You’re a horse left too long to its own druthers. It will do you a world of good to settle down. And fatherhood –
legitimate
fatherhood,” she stressed, “may bring you unexpected joy. Now, there’s a fee for my counsel, sir.”

“You may ask anything of me – within the bounds of morals and religion,” he added decorously.

She leant over to pinch him on the cheek. “I wish to be godmother to your firstborn.”

“You have a bargain, madam,” he said, and they drank a health to it.

Price dismounted, thighs trembling and buttocks aching. Not once in his life had he ridden so far in such a short time: London to Oxford, to report to Lord Digby, who had ready for him a new suit of clothes, expensive though of a rather dullish russet colour; and then about thirty-five miles onwards to Chipping Campden.

Now Price appreciated his lordship’s sartorial choice. Lord Beaumont’s mansion was a model of restrained taste in the style of the Banqueting House at Whitehall, and to Price’s eye, just as grand. Some day all this would be Beaumont’s. It confounded Price yet more that Beaumont should go about with holes in his clothes and ragged shirt cuffs. And he seemed to have but a single decent suit to his name, of Puritanical black; and not even a servant to attend him.

Price was still gazing at the magnificent façade fronted by columns when an ancient bow-legged man in livery stomped over to take his horse. “A good morning to you, sir. Have you come from the church?”

“No, from Oxford,” said Price, in the aristocratic tone he had been practising, and shook the snow from the hem of his cloak.

“Then you will have missed the ceremony, sir – it must be finished by this hour. Ah, I see some of the gentlemen now.” The man pointed to a party of riders galloping up the gravel drive. They swung
gracefully from their mounts, handing their reins to younger grooms who had rushed to their assistance. Beaumont was not among them.

Price whipped off his beaver hat and bowed. “May I introduce myself: Mr. Edward Price.”

They also bowed, though none doffed their hats or gave their names; they appeared more interested in the old man. “Jacob, spry as ever,” one of them said.

“Seventy if I’m a day, sir,” Jacob said proudly.

“Three score and ten,” remarked Price, to join in the conversation. “And for how many of those years have you been his lordship’s groom?”

“Jacob is not a groom, sir: he is my father’s Master of Horse,” another corrected Price with a blue-eyed stare. “I am Thomas Beaumont. Are you a guest of Ingram’s?” Dark blond, pink-complexioned, and bearded, he was a couple of inches shy of his brother’s height, not lean and rangy but strongly built, and he held himself straight as a ramrod.

Price hesitated, surprised, and then had to shout his reply: a procession of coaches was rumbling into the courtyard accompanied by more men on horseback. “In fact, sir, I am an uninvited guest, here to see your brother on Lord Digby’s behalf.”

“How he loves to receive such guests at our family weddings,” Thomas said, with a wry edge, “though he might have preferred if you were of the opposite sex.”

Price tried to stay by Thomas’s side, as they ascended the front steps. Through the doors, he saw a lofty ceiling festooned with plaster wreaths, and an expanse of floor paved in black-and-white marble, ending in a flight of polished oak stairs wide enough for half a dozen souls to walk up side by side. Two statues, both the height of a tall man, flanked the doors to a great hall: a semi-clad nymph and a youth wrestling with a serpent. Price had to admire the nymph’s pert breasts.

Thomas’s group left him behind and thundered up the staircase, so he meandered into the hall. Tables were set with spotless linen cloths, silver plate, knives, spoons, an array of glassware, and even
forks! Room for at least a hundred guests, Price estimated. Musicians were assembled on a dais playing viols and wind instruments, and in the hearth of a carved fireplace blazed a fire aromatic with the scent of pine cones. High over the mantel hung the portrait of a gentleman who resembled Thomas Beaumont, though his face wore a sweet, faraway expression.