Claire Letemendia - The Best of Men

“He bent on others, my lord. He let one of his most faithful ministers go to the scaffold.”

“So he did,” Lord Beaumont acknowledged, turning to Laurence. “I attended the Earl of Strafford’s trial, and he defeated every charge Parliament laid against him.”

“As well he would!” said Lady Beaumont. “What crime did he commit, in urging a stern response to the disorder breaking out in this kingdom?”

“Strafford was too much hated by the people to survive. The King had no option, though I know it tore at his heart and he bears the pain still. Laurence, has Ingram enlisted yet in His Majesty’s service?” Lord Beaumont asked next.

“He has, yes,” Laurence said.

“He visited us often while you were away, hoping for some news of you. Thomas saw him in Oxford not a week past.”

“Thomas is raising a troop under the family colours,” said Lady Beaumont. “You will be eager to join him, Laurence.”

Laurence made no comment, fidgeting with the glass in his hand.

“My dear son,” Lord Beaumont said, perhaps reading his dis comfort, “what terrible things you must have seen happen abroad. I have been blessed to live thus far in a time of peace, and the thought of bloodshed appalls me no end. It has been nigh on two hundred years since this country was last devastated by civil war, though we came close in the past century. But if some violence cannot be avoided, at least we can anticipate a short engagement, an affair of gentleman. We shall not suffer here the atrocities you doubtless witnessed in the Low Countries. And now, no more talk of war.”

“And no more wine, my lord,” said Lady Beaumont, as her husband was about to call for another round. “I must insist that you go to your chamber and bathe before supper, Laurence, and make yourself presentable.”

“Please excuse me, then,” he said, and obeyed, feeling their eyes upon him as he walked from the hall. On his way upstairs, other eyes followed him, painted and inscrutable: those of his ancestors whose portraits lined the walls. As he reached the door to his chamber, the same manservant was there to open it for him, also regarding him intently, ready to set out clean clothes for the evening. Laurence had to confess that he had brought with him only a dirty shirt. When the bath had been drawn the man lingered, waiting in attendance rather like one of Lord Beaumont’s statues, with a pile of towels draped over his arm. Laurence wanted to laugh at the absurd luxury of it all. Instead he asked the man to leave him, not out of modesty, but because he wanted to be alone.

The second day after Laurence’s return proved sunny and humid, so Lord Beaumont had retreated to the cool of his library, where he sat over a volume of Petrarch. From the garden directly beneath his window came the sound of voices, those of his son and daughters; and as he listened, it occurred to him that Laurence was spending most of his time with them and very little with his parents, as though he were wishing to avoid any serious discussion of his years abroad, or of his future plans.

“Tom will arrive tomorrow,” Lord Beaumont heard Elizabeth declare. “Geoffrey went to Oxford this morning to fetch him. Laurence, will you join his troop?”

Lord Beaumont sat forward, to listen more keenly.

“Not if I have a choice,” Laurence said, after a small pause.

“Why would anyone choose to fight!” she said. “I am so weary of politics. Ormiston talks of nothing else when he visits.”

“John Ormiston is her betrothed,” Anne explained.

“I hope he knows how lucky he is,” Laurence remarked, in such a protective, brotherly tone that Lord Beaumont felt touched to the heart. “So tell me all about him.”

“Where to begin,” sighed Elizabeth. “He’s eight years older than I am, and was married before but his first wife died in childbirth. His father left him property near Hereford, where his mother lives with his two spinster sisters. Mrs. Ormiston is a shrew blessed with unnatural good health.”

“Isn’t that always the case. What about Tom’s wife? What sort of person is she?”

“She brought in a huge dowry,” said Anne. “And she worships Tom.”

“She does indeed,” Elizabeth giggled. “I must admit she irritates me no end. She keeps making such tiresome comments to me about my wedding night, as if it is all a complete mystery to me.”

Lord Beaumont caught his son laughing. “ Is it?”

“Not entirely, but I do have a few questions that you might be able to answer.”

“You can ask me whatever you want. The less of a mystery it is, the more you might enjoy it.”

Lord Beaumont set aside Petrarch and rose from his chair, alarmed lest his wife might also be within earshot of the garden. He was about to call down an admonition, when there came a knock at the library door. A servant had arrived bearing his afternoon glass of fruit cordial.

“Please summon my son,” Lord Beaumont told the man, and waited, pacing up and down, until Laurence strolled in.

“Sit down, sir.” Lord Beaumont regarded him sternly. “Laurence, you must be more prudent in what you discuss with Elizabeth and Anne. They are innocent creatures.”

“Ah, so you overheard us,” he said, with a smile.

“They may be upset by your candour on certain subjects.” Lord Beaumont hesitated. “Marriage, for example.”

“On the subject of marriage, I’m quite ignorant myself.”

“You know what I mean,” said Lord Beaumont, suppressing his own amusement. “Now why are you so unwilling to join your brother?” Laurence’s smile hardened slightly, and he looked away with a hint of impatience. Pondering whether to press him further, Lord Beaumont observed not the changes in his son’s appearance but what was the same: his rangy physique, his untidiness, the animation in his features, and his eyes, so much his mother’s. It was the colour and set of her eyes that had captivated Lord Beaumont over thirty years ago in Seville: celadon, fringed with long dark lashes, they were almond-shaped and slanted like those of an Oriental. He remained utterly hostage to their charm.

“Ingram told me that Seward is still at Merton,” Laurence said abruptly, leaving his father’s query unanswered.

“He is,” said Lord Beaumont, allowing it to pass, gratified that Laurence should ask after their former tutor. “He has given up most of his teaching and pursues his esoteric studies, which I pray will not get him into the same trouble he once faced in King James’ reign, when I was up at College.”

“Ah yes. He was suspected of witchcraft, or something of the kind, wasn’t he.”

“It was all nonsense, of course, and he defended himself admirably, but academics have long memories. He wrote to me during your absence assuring me that you would return, although at the time I believed it was just to comfort me. He was so attached to you when you were a lad. Indeed, your mother often worried that he might be … overly attached.”

“She shouldn’t have worried,” Laurence said, laughing. “I really must call on him.”

“He would be delighted. Oh, and while you are there, you might do me a small favour.” From the book he had been reading, Lord Beaumont pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is from John Earle, a fellow of Merton for some years whom Seward no doubt knows. Earle and I have been playing a game together, an exchange of letters in cipher to test our wits, although in this case, I fear Earle has tested mine too greatly, for I cannot unscramble what he has put down here. Perhaps I might beg your assistance with it. You studied such things with Seward, did you not, and had quite a talent for them?” Laurence nodded, a peculiar wariness in his eyes. “You might have better luck than I, and you could then leave our transcription at the College, for Earle to collect at his convenience.” As his son began to read the letter, Lord Beaumont went on, “Earle belonged to Lord Falkland’s circle of friends at Great Tew. He was also chaplain to the Earl of Pembroke, then chancellor of Oxford. It was a shock to me, by the bye, that Pembroke sided with Parliament.”