The Nonsuch Lure

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

  For Claire M. Smith

  and Patricia B. Soliman

  THE NONSUCH LURE

  Nonsuch, a royal retreat, in a place formerly called Cud-dington, a very healthful situation, chosen by King Henry VIII for his pleasure and retirement, and built by him with an excess of magnificence and elegance even to ostentation; one would imagine everything that architecture can perform to have been employed in this one work. There are everywhere so many statues that seem to breathe, so many miracles of consummate art, so many casts that rival even the the perfection of Roman antiquity, that it may well claim and justify its name of Nonsuch, being without an equal; or, as the poet sung,

  This, which no equal has in art or fame, Britons deservedly do Nonsuch name.

  NOTE

  The inspiration for this book was a visit several years ago to Nonsuch Park near Ewell in Surrey. There the late John Dent, author of The Quest for Nonsuch, told me the story of the Cuddington family, Richard and Elizabeth, whose lands were confiscated by King Henry VIII in order that he might build a palace "as there would be none such in the land."

  In 1959, during what he called his "Nonsuch Summer," John Dent was closely involved in the actual excavation of the old Tudor palace. In his book, he recounted the eviction of the Cuddington family, the destruction of their home, the church, the village and nearby Merton Priory.

  Upon these facts, I have peopled Nonsuch Palace with fictitious characters and events. Set against a solid historical background, they have given me much pleasure in my own "Nonsuch Summer."

  Summer, lgj^ Mary M. Luke

  Ridgefield, Connecticut

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  Qhapter (Qne

  The tall man swung his briefcase from overhead, eager to leave the big jet. He hoped there would be no long wait for luggage, for he was anxious to begin the search that had brought him to London. As he followed the passengers toward the exit, he wondered at the quiet elation that always accompanied a return to England. His work had taken him all over the world; he was comfortable in most of its largest cities. Yet the sight of England—whether approaching its incredible green from the sky or gliding silently through the Solent by ship—always inspired a jubilant sense of homecoming and pleasure.

  Andrew remembered someone once telling him that everyone on earth had a spiritual home—some one place where they were part of the environment and functioned more satisfactorily than any other. It could be a Norwegian fjord, a hill town in India or the colonial simplicity of a New England village. For Andrew it had always been England. Yet he'd have hesitated to confide the feeling to anyone. It didn't fit the sophisticated image of a distinguished author, lecturer and world traveler, one trained as an architect whose own private fortune allowed him the privilege of evaluating buildings instead of erecting them. Such a belief might seem naive and would hardly enhance the solid reputation of the architectural connoisseur who wrote so vividly of the wonders of the Kremlin, the Colosseum and Versailles.

  Even the crowded traffic of Earls Court and the dull mediocrity of the Cromwell Road did nothing to lessen his delight at the prospect of more than a month in London. Passing the great red pile of

  Harrods, as the cab swung toward Hyde Park Corner, turning down Grosvenor Place toward Buckingham Palace, Andrew felt the excitement of the ordinary tourist. It was late afternoon, and the area around the graceful iron gates of the palace was almost deserted. He noted the taut standard signifying that Majesty was in residence and then settled back to enjoy the pleasing prospect of the long straight vista down the Mall. His trained eye savored its symmetry and form, even as the artist in him appreciated the luxurious green and the bright scarlet tulips of St. James's Park. He wondered—not for the first time—at the translucence of the air over the towers of Whitehall lying just ahead, their pale washed stone fringed at the bottom by the park trees.

  At Charing Cross, the busy intersection before the Strand, Andrew gathered together coat and briefcase as the driver slowed to look for the number. He could almost read the man's thoughts: an American with an authoritative air, wearing well-cut clothes and carrying good luggage should really be destined for the Savoy Hotel up ahead, not an obscure number which Andrew insisted was a small residential hotel. "If 'tis, 'tis news to me, guvnor," the man had said, "and I bin drivin' a long enough time, 'tis true. . . ."

  The cab slowed to a crawl. Just head, Andrew saw an old building, its faded stone mottled and dirt-begrimed, set back several feet from the pavement. "That must be it, driver. . . ." He pointed, overlooking the man's disdainful sniff, as he pulled to a stop. It was. A small plaque, cuddington house, number 18 in the strand, was affixed to a door oddly out of keeping with the building's facade. Andrew tipped the driver generously to atone for the man's disillusionment; the sight of the note brought him from the cab to pile Andrew's luggage at the door. To the right, an electric sign, teas, flicked on and off in a window. Hardly prepossessing and possibly a real fleabag, Andrew thought, which may just serve me right for indulging myself in this extravagant whim. Forget the feather bed, down quilt, newly laid fire, proper English tea and breakfast—such civilized amenities were fast disappearing from other better hotels as the traditional English servant passed from the scene.

  Inside, however, was a pleasant surprise. The lobby was unusually large and filled with those wicker pieces so dear to English hearts. Yet here and there older, more substantial pieces filled in: a japanned cabinet, highly glossed to a deep ebony sheen, an octagonal table atop a magnificent acanthus leaf base, holding a lamp

  of dubious origin, fringed and balled. Pastel paintings on delicate rice paper, filled with the feathery strokes of the Oriental artist, hung over the sofa, its chintz so faded the pattern was undiscerni-ble. The once-magnificent rug was threadbare and in spots revealed portions of what appeared to be a stone floor. There was insufficient light from the undersized windows; consequently everything was dim, almost dark in the corners. Even the electric bulbs were too weak to be effective.

  A pleasant-faced woman behind the desk welcomed him. As he signed the surprisingly thick register, she asked, "Were you recommended by a friend, sir?"

  Andrew hesitated. "Well, not exactly. No, not a friend. But I heard about Number 18 in the States."

  "Well, it makes no matter. We ask only because, you see, we do get many recommendations from people who've stayed here, and it makes it more friendly if we know who sent you."

  An older man emerged from the room behind the counter. Nearly bald, he had the pallor of one continually indoors. He wore a frayed black coat over a paunch, baggy trousers and a pair of well-worn bedroom slippers.

  "My husband"—the woman gestured—"he'll take you up to your room. We've given you a front room, sir, which I hope won't be too noisy. But the Strand does quiet down somewhat at night and over the weekend, you know. 'Tis all we have anyway."

  Andrew followed the man to the lift-small even by English standards. He scorned Andrew's offer of help with the luggage, insisting he could get it all in if just left alone. As suitcases wobbled precariously atop each other, he strained at the rope that, after three mighty tugs, sent the lift soaring upward with surprising ease. Andrew helped unload the luggage, and at the end of the hall the man threw open a door.

  The room was larger than Andrew had expected, with the same unusual contrast in furnishings as downstairs. There was a hint of lost grandeur in its spaciousness, in the intricately carved plaster ceiling, now so begrimed the design was difficult to see. The walls weren't contemporary with the ceiling; Andrew had the feeling the originals would have been carved plaster, too. And the floors, covered with several rugs of uncertain derivation, were no more than thirty
or forty years old. A wide bed, unbelievably canopied in balled and fringed maroon velour, was against one wall. Andrew

  had seen similar beds in museums and exclusive country houses around the world. A nondescript night table and lamp were at the side. To the right of the windows—and up here their width and thick embrasures were in proportion to the room—a handsome cabinet, cleverly converted, served as a bureau. An Edwardian armoire stood in the corner, a faded counterpart of many turned out by the thousands fifty years before. A serviceable sink and towel rack were near the door, and as the man left, he pointed to the bathroom several doors down the hall.

  It might have been worse. Andrew went to the window. The glass was very old, even wavy in spots; it had to be the original. He cast a professional eye over the outside stonework. Mullioned, by God. He opened the window and felt appreciately of the rough old stone. Something tugged at his mind as he gazed into the Strand below. Across the way the soaring splendor of the Shell-Mex building pointed heavenward, one of the few taller buildings the English had done well, most being graceless travesties of the worst being put up in the States. The Shell-Mex fronted on the Embankment, hiding the Thames from view.

  The late-afternoon sun was fast disappearing, glinting on the sloping roofs of the Embankment buildings. At the end of Hunger-ford Bridge on the opposite side of the Thames was the square cube of the Royal Festival Hall. Traffic roared along the Embankment below, and through the trees Andrew could just glimpse Cleopatra's Needle—an incongruity from a desert land that, over the past century, had mellowed into part of the river scene. The windows of the Houses of Parliament were aflame with the lessening rays of the sun, and behind them was the roseate tip of Westminster Abbey. Opposite the Houses of Parliament the small red jewel of Lambeth Palace was doll-like beside the greater mass of St. Thomas's Hospital, which hid the palace gardens from view.

  Looking in the opposite direction, Andrew blessed the good fortune that had halted the great London Fire of 1666 at the Temple, only a few steps away to the north. The original city of the Romans, the Conqueror, the Plantagenets, Tudors and Stuarts hadn't survived. Only the Tower, parts of the Temple and a few isolated buildings dated back earlier than the late seventeenth century. But Westminster Hall, over by the Houses of Parliament, had been built by William Rufus, a son of the Conqueror, about 1090; the Abbey itself was even older. Andrew didn't consider himself a

  historian, but his work had given him access to many facts he might not ordinarily have acquired.

  He was engrossed in the scene when a knock on the door revealed the lady from behind the counter. She carried a tray with a teapot and cup and some generous slices of bread, meat and cake. "'Tis Sunday, sir, and you'll have to walk to Piccadilly to find anything open, and you'll still not be finding anything as good as this." She set the tray down on top of the bureau. "Did you find everything all right, sir?"

  Andrew eyed the tea; he was hungrier than he'd thought. "This is very land of you, Mrs. . . ."

  "Caudle, sir, Rosa Caudle and Harry's my husband." She looked around the room. "This is one of the nicest. We usually save it for Americans; they like the bed and the view"—she waved to the windows—"such as it is since that monster went up. . . ." The Shell-Mex was obviously no favorite of Mrs. Caudle's. "As a girl I can remember being able to see the river from here. Ever so pretty on a fine day it was, sir, and prettier inside Cuddington House, too, more light and all."

  "Then you've been here since you were a girl?" Andrew laid some meat between the buttered bread. "You've always lived here, Mrs. Caudle?"

  "Ever since I can remember, sir. You see, I was a Cuddington before I married Harry. The Cuddingtons have lived here since the place was built, and that's hundreds of years ago—it's all down in papers we have in the safe. I think it's one of the oldest places in the Strand, sir. The Americans always seem to like that part. There's a history of the place printed in the lounge, sir, if you'd like to read it. Just leave the tray outside the door when you're finished, sir." And Rosa Caudle was gone from the room before Andrew could frame another question. There were so many he wished to ask.

  Well, it all fits the story so far, he thought, lighting a cigarette and relaxing against the pillows under the faded grandeur of the canopy. Checking into Cuddington House, Number 18 in the Strand, had been the first step in solving the mystery that had so unaccountably gripped him since the discovery he'd made in Williamsburg. He'd come to England direct from the little Virginia

  city, where he'd spent several months working on the restored or reconstructed buildings that had played such an important part in America's early history.

  Following the completion of his work in Williamsburg, Andrew had planned a month's vacation with married friends in Vermont whose little guesthouse had more than once provided a welcome retreat. It was just at that time he'd noticed an obscure item in a Washington newspaper reporting that the Palace of Nonsuch in Surrey would soon be excavated.

  When he was a child, Andrew's parents, cultivated and knowledgeable travelers, had been guests at the stately pile of Lord something-or-other near the village of Ewell. One afternoon a serving girl had been directed to take the eight-year-old Andrew to play in Nonsuch Park. He'd been entranced. It was summer, and the great park—so vast and open to a child more familiar with the confines of New York's Central Park—had stretched before him, an endless expanse of green grass and trees. He'd flown his kite, eaten the generous picnic the girl had brought and listened to the soughing of the trees that grew to great heights. In the early dusk they'd walked down a long treelined drive through the park gates, and the girl—whose every feature was still clear in his memory, though he'd long since forgotten her name—had told him that once a magnificent palace had occupied the site, a palace built by Henry VIII for his queen. Unfortunately, she couldn't remember which one. Henry had stayed at Nonsuch, and so had his children; it was a favorite of the great Elizabeth. The girl didn't know what happened to the palace, but the surrounding park had been kept open to the public. In the intervening years Andrew had often driven by car or traveled by train in the general vicinity. Passing signs reading Nonsuch Park, he remembered the intelligent maid who'd cared enough to stimulate a small boy's imagination—and he cursed the lack of time prohibiting a grown-up visit.

  The news story had set Andrew to thinking of substituting England for Vermont. With any luck, he might see the excavations; he might, with his professional background and knowledge, even be able to help. When he mentioned the possibility to his secretary, Miss Dabney—whose idea of a proper vacation was more likely the Club Mediteranee—her response was an expressive shrug. Several friends reacted similarly when Andrew mentioned Nonsuch, noting

  with amusement that he didn't usually involve himself in anything so whimsically trivial. He, cheerfully, agreed.

  Livia Thomas was no exception. She worked for Colonial Williamsburg as an art expert, with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England her special province. Much of the art, architecture and general construction of eighteenth-century Williamsburg was a direct derivation of those periods. She'd been invaluable to Andrew, who preferred not to employ a permanent assistant. Livia had been much taken with him and, in his months in Williamsburg, had endeavored in every way she knew—and some of the ways were mighty impressive, he now admitted—to see that she became more permanent than an assistant. In the end she'd found, as countless others before her, that the lure of a new assignment was sufficient for Andrew to disentangle himself—he was always the gentleman, he hoped—from any emotional encumbrances.

  If asked, Andrew Moffatt couldn't have explained why, in his late thirties, he was unmarried, with no serious romantic involvement. His parents had been very happy together. They'd rarely been apart, and when his father died unexpectedly in his fifties, his mother—in seeming good health—had followed him within a year. It had left Andrew, at twenty-five, with a well-nigh limitless future before him, thanks to his good education and propensity for hard work,
his assured architectural expertise, all buttressed by a healthy, well-administered trust fund. His tall, rangy good looks had made him the target of women of all ages, sizes, colors and creeds. Along the way he'd taken what was freely offered, being careful that no emotional entanglement would hinder his leaving— as he always knew he would. Oddly, few begrudged such treatment, recognizing they had unexpectedly captured a rara avis. Instead, they remained flattered by his attention, accepting that the affair would be short-lived. Andrew could, in almost every major city of the world, have phoned an Old Friend. She would have been eager to see him, even willing to revive their romance, knowing that at the end he would leave.

  As far as he was concerned, his life-style left nothing to be desired. A pied-a-terre in New York held a few of his things: his books, the good porcelains from his parents, his out-of-season clothes and his important papers. Everything else traveled with him. He'd trained himself to sleep on short flights as well as long ones, to hire the finest in chauffeured cars, always to have first-class

  accommodations. Since travel was an integral part of his work, he'd long ago decided to enjoy it. He'd achieved a solid fame in his field and had enjoyed every step of the way. He wasn't given to idle whims or hurried decisions, and the curious sense of urgency that made him forgo a New England vacation with old and dear companions for the opportunity to see the remains of an ancient Tudor palace had puzzled him as much as it had amused others.

  In short, he was here in England, but he was not sure just why.

  During those last few weeks in Williamsburg he might easily have changed his mind. Common sense told him he could obtain full reports, complete with photographs, of the excavations through his professional contacts. Livia continued charming, applying subtle pressure for him to stay. The Virginia countryside in late spring was as beautiful and relaxing as the comfortable Vermont hilltop. Yet remembrance of that English park and its vanished stately palace recurred daily. Indeed, he might still be there at Williamsburg if it hadn't been for that momentous day he found the book he now referred to as Julian's Journal.