The Nonsuch Lure Page 2

  Artifacts—broken shards of glass, ceramic pottery, bent ironwork, moldering pieces of wood—were constantly being turned up. Any new digging or cleaning of existing Williamsburg foundations uncovered buckets of debris that went to the restoration workshops for any information they might give on colonial life.

  But Andrew's discovery hadn't come from the earth; it had come from a very respectable bookstore in the shopping complex just outside the restored area. The proprietor had asked Andrew to autograph copies of his latest book on architectural finds from the caves of Indians who'd inhabited the great American southwest thousands of years ago. Andrew had browsed among the current bestsellers, selected a few paperbacks against his next air trip and paused briefly in front of a locked glass-door cabinet. It contained matched sets handsomely bound in leather, as well as single volumes in various sizes—all undeniably old. One book caught his attention simply because it was smaller than and not as rich-looking as the rest. Out of sheer curiosity, he asked the proprietor if he might see it.

  He riffled the pages idly, attempting to sort out from the fine, clear handwriting who had written the book and what it was about

  The flyleaf bore the inscription "Julian Cushing. My Journal. Williamsburg, i6qq and England 1700" Not really old, Andrew noted, a little more than two hundred and fifty years ago, and undoubtedly the tired reminiscences of an old codger who'd taken the Grand Tour. He was about to return it to the shelf when a sentence leaped from the page: "I am hoping soon to go to Nonsuch. It will be a fitting reward for the vile trip on the ocean. If it had not been for the portrait, I would never have come this far. . . .

  Andrew had been startled and later puzzled by his reaction. He felt an intense inner excitement, and it seemed only to increase as he turned the pages. The feeling was difficult to explain. It wasn't an expensive or rare volume—more the type a man of modest means might have purchased to record the passage of his days. Hundreds of years ago, Andrew knew, everyone who could read and write had kept a journal. The modern-day diary satisfied, in briefer form, the same need to record one's daily activities. But journals were never numbered daily as modern diaries were, and the writer could go on at length, dating the time himself. One entry might contain innumerable pages of the writer s musings, as well as the affairs of the day. Other days might contain, as Julian Cushing had written, "Nothing." He had also, Andrew noted, skipped a day or two whenever presumably little occurred to merit even the abrupt "Nothing."

  Still the sense of excitement stayed with him, so he'd bought the journal, returning to show it to Livia Thomas. She pronounced it genuine enough, but whether Julian Cushing had lived a life sufficiently interesting to merit its price, only a thorough reading would show. Andrew resolved to find out that evening.

  He'd read the book with a concentration part curiosity, part exhilaration and an odd compelling acuity to which he could put no name. It was unusual, to say the least, that this unknown and seemingly very ordinary young man should, more than two hundred and fifty years ago, when one did not undertake such a journey casually, have been so passionately inquisitive about Nonsuch Palace that he'd crossed the sea to view its ruins. Just as he, Andrew Moffatt, was now contemplating crossing the sea (but not a "vile trip," he hoped) to see whatever they'd unearthed of it. He returned to the paragraph mentioning the portrait. How fortunate Julian was to

  have seen a portrait of Nonsuch! Andrew was familiar with the only existing sketches or pictures. Extensive as several of them were, they still showed frustratingly little of what the interior of the great structure must have been like.

  Now, months later, recollection of the Journal caused Andrew to rummage through a suitcase, and he thumbed the pages of the book, looking for Julian's comments on his arrival. There they were on page 42. He lit another cigarette, leaned back against the bed pillows and read:

  "I am very pleased with my Reception here. Being greatly fatigued with the discomfort of my passage, I remained overnight at Dover. Today by horse to London and to Cuddington House in the Strand which had been so highly recommended to me as it was the home of my friend, James Cuddington. It is a most gracious Structure, one of the sights of the Strand, being of more recent construction which is in pleasant contrast with the Dire condition of many of those older mansions of the nobility along the River. The furnishings are very handsome, being family pieces so Miss Rosa Cuddington, who lives here now, told me.

  Some of them have remained in the house since its Construction. I am in a fair room facing the River—the view is most Gratifying and the air remarkably Restorative.

  At tea (which is a new drink only now becoming available to other than the Aristocracy due to its price—which I found most Pleasing), I told Miss Cuddington of the Portrait which has become so Dear to me, and at length we removed the coverings which had withstood extremely well the punishment of the crossing. I also told her of my Desire to see the portrait returned to its owners. I can only hope I withheld my Passion from her gaze. She is a very Perceptive Woman.

  And so tomorrow I go to Nonsuch. It promises to be a glorious morning. I am to travel with Miss Cuddington who has also arranged for me to stay at Sparwefeld Farm in the park near Nonsuch, which the Cuddington family own. She was very impressed with the portrait's beauty and said I would find things little changed at Sparwefeld—it is near enough to the palace site and she said the ruins are indeed more Extensive than I had been led to believe—or hoped."

  And then, maddeningly, under the next day, an abrupt "Nothing."

  It was this "Nothing" when he'd expected so much that most intrigued Andrew. Even more remarkable was the disparity in the entries after Julian's arrival in England, compared to what had gone before. In Williamsburg his writing had been unselfconscious and free. Julian had been unassumingly honest, noting his day-to-day activities, recording his reactions as well. The pages were cluttered with little philosophies and homilies Andrew had found touching. His arrival in England had been much as he'd expected, although the crossing seemed to have been unusually severe. Julian seemed pleased with Cuddington House and with Miss Rosa Cuddington, to whom he'd shown the Nonsuch portrait. She'd even sent him to a family residence near the old palace. He'd felt great anticipation for viewing the ruins the next day. Then, under that date, "Nothing." Exasperating and somehow mysterious—it seemed as though once he'd seen Nonsuch, Julian was somehow reluctant to convey too much to his Journal.

  The enigmatic "Nothing" had gnawed at Andrew. His attention and curiosity were thoroughly aroused, and he decided then and there to visit the excavation site. However, he'd never expected to find Cuddington House, Number 18 in the Strand, still in existence. Familiar as he was with London, the small, shabby structure, now captive between two office buildings, had simply gone unnoticed. In the travel agency at Williamsburg, while he waited for a clerk to process his airline ticket, he'd thumbed through some travel literature. A brochure, featuring "Places to Stay—the Offbeat, the Unusual," listed Cuddington House. "Popular with Americans for its highly convenient location, this venerable old structure is already over 400 years old. It has been dispensing old-fashioned hospitality to the public since the early 1800s. Mrs. R. Caudle, Prop."

  Andrew couldn't believe the coincidence: that the same lodgings where Julian Cushing had stayed more than two hundred fifty years before should still be available and that he should so casually have learned of their existence. Number 18 in the Strand. Four hundred years old. Wavy floors and things that go bump in the night. Bathrooms a half mile away. Dust under the bureau and flypaper hanging from the ceiling. No telephone. Gray-haired schoolteachers in sneakers, and balding, bookish scholars, complete with umbrella, or wispy effeminate young men on culture kicks.

  That's what he'd find at Number 18, and it would serve him right.

  Yet the desire to see Cuddington House—to take advantage of that incredible coincidence—was overwhelming. Common sense told him to head straight for his London favorite, the Connaught. But common sense seeme
d to have deserted him the moment he thought of visiting a field of Surrey ruins. So caution (and the Con-naught) were hastily abandoned, as Andrew requested the agency to make reservations at Cuddington House. If he were going to follow in Julian Cushing's footsteps, he might as well go the whole route. He left the agency thinking he'd have only himself—and Julian—to blame if the journey became the crashing bore his friends predicted.

  He looked now at the remainder of the Journal— about fifty-five additonal pages. He'd read them all thoroughly. Julian Cushing's life in the opening passages had been quite simple and yet, by the standards of that time, probably a comfortable and certainly a fortunate one. The boy—he seemed to be about twenty years old when he began his entries—had some income from a small Jamestown plantation left by his late father. Evidently, it wasn't enough to support him as he wished to live—as a gentleman and a learned one at that. Julian seemed at one time to have considered the church as a career but, for reasons not given, had become interested in the building of the new town of Williamsburg. Jamestown had previously been the capital of Virginia. In 1699 the State House had burned, and a new and more desirable site, Middle Plantation, between the York and James rivers, some seven miles away, was chosen as the new capital. It was renamed Williamsburg in honor of William III. The new college at the end of the Duke of Gloucester Street was also named after the English monarchs, William and Mary. Early in 1700 Julian seemed to be a teacher there on a part-time basis while also serving as a tutor—probably a "gentleman's" way of supplementing a small income.

  The Journal was full of his daily activities:

  "November 4, i6gg: To a Muster at the Village Green in honor of the King's birthday and an Agreeable Evening at Marriofs Ordinary following the Musick which was most Pleasant. There was much discussion of the Design for the new Capitol which will be at the end of the Duke of Gloucester Street a

  mile away from the College. There are many Persons of repute who wish it elsewhere."

  On another occasion, in late December of the same year:

  "Master James Cuddington has kindly invited me to Partake of the Christmas merriment at his house in Francis Street. Planning goes forward for the Town Gaol and the Powder Magazine. The Streets are being layd out quite straightly using the old Roman grid. It has been decided to put the Capitol at the end of the Duke of Gloucester Street."

  Several days later, the entry was more personal, allowing a glimpse of Julian Cushing's personality:

  "Services were held at the little church and were most beautiful and I felt a great Solemnity which I often find when at Prayer. A surcease and a great longing which is most puzzling, but which does not remain Longe. Master Cuddington had a fine Feaste and there were gifts for all, including the servants which are all black and very kindly does Master Cuddington treate them, is not always the case. I am minded of the Poor conditions of some of the Jamestown plantations. There will be many blacks here at Williamsburg, for there is a great Lacke of other help and much building will commence soon. It is now all in Planning form."

  The elaborate entries were interspersed by an occasional "Nothing." A dull wet Sunday? An anticipated event that disappointed? Andrew wondered. There was very little about Julian's work as tutor or teacher; apparently, he'd considered it boring. And who was the Cuddington who'd gone to America? Andrew couldn't recall the name from his work at Williamsburg where most houses bore the names of their original owners.

  But the Journal seemed to come suddenly alive when Julian discovered what he called "the Portrait," and there was no question but that he'd become virtually obsessed with it. He referred to it constantly: "A rare find of such Beauty which set in me such a longing for Nonsuch." Or, "Master Cuddington tells me the Portrait is from Nonsuch—would that I could see the original in all beauty

  and grace!" Shortly afterward Julian seemed to have somehow acquired the funds for the journey to England, but his references to Nonsuch puzzled Andrew, for the palace was a ruin by the time Julian had crossed the sea. Yet even that hadn't deterred the young colonial, whose obsession with the portrait seemed such an odd contrast with the sensible and somewhat pragmatic young man of the early pages. Even as, Andrew had to admit, the ruins were not deterring him either. Actually, he'd see only excavated ruins. Julian would have seen the remains of buildings still above the ground.

  Returning to the Journal, Andrew examined the inside pages near the binding carefully to see if any pages had been torn out. It was inconceivable that Julian would record no thought or impression of Nonsuch. Yet, several days after noting his excitement at seeing the palace, Julian had made only the cryptic entry: "We went today to the Ruins for the fourth time. If the Lure is there, we mean to find it, for C. says it has to be there still. . . ."

  Lure? What was the lure of Nonsuch—what did it mean to Julian Cushing? The entry seemed to indicate the Lure was a physical thing, not an appeal to the emotions. The lure of the Tudor palace had brought him across the sea, and viewing the ruins had apparently not abated his infatuation with the place. Yet there seemed to be something more. And, whatever it was, clearly Julian did not feel confident in noting it in his Journal.

  The outside light was fading from the room, and Andrew made a mental note to ask Mrs. Caudle for stronger bulbs for his lamp. Now the repleteness of her tea and his concentration on Julian Cushing's neat handwriting made him realize his weariness. He laid the Journal on the bedside table, put the tray outside the door as Mrs. Caudle had asked and unpacked. Early retirement would help diminish any lingering effects of jet lag, and tomorrow he'd hire a car, drive to Ewell and see Nonsuch Park and the excavations.

  His last conscious thought after turning out the light was the remembrance of a small boy running with a kite over grass so smooth and green he could not believe it real. He was running toward a great palace which he knew hadn't been there then, but perhaps now—somewhere in the future—he might be able to get a glimpse of what it had been in all its glory.

  Qhapter ^Jwo

  The lobby of Cuddington House was warm with sunshine when Andrew emerged from the lift early the next morning. He'd slept well and was eager to be under way. Walking toward the desk, he found his attention caught by the pleasant contrast with the previous afternoon, when he'd been the only one about and everything had appeared dim and dark. Now people passed with pleasant greetings toward the dining room. The lobby's early-morning brightness was emphasized by bouquets of simple garden flowers on tables and desks, spots of color in the clear, lambent light. Harry, Rosa's husband, had just finished vacuuming, and the red, gold and black carpet appeared burnished in the sunlight. There was a homelike serenity to the room that was very appealing. No canned music floated from its four corners—no radio or television blared from the lounge. Only the muted roar of traffic outside and a delightful sense of isolation and privacy within. A few guests sat in the wicker chairs reading the morning Times. They were a comfortable-looking lot, and not a gray-haired schoolteacher in sneakers among them; just ordinary travelers who seemed much at home in Cuddington House.

  Rosa Caudle was at the desk, and Andrew asked if she'd arrange for a car he might drive to Ewell, where he hoped to see the Nonsuch Palace excavations.

  "Ewell, sir?" Rosa's tone was disapproving and she thought for a moment. "Ewell's very near, sir, and the excavations aren't far away. A train would be much quicker and cheaper, too, a car being

  so dear and all. If you don't mind my saying so, sir, a train would be better—it's only about twenty minutes."

  Andrew had savored the idea of driving south into Surrey, but his hostess was probably right. So, asking her to look up a convenient train, he said he'd return after breakfast and, strolling to the dining room, noticed the plaque Rosa had mentioned the previous day. It was handsomely printed, longer than he thought, and he stopped, thinking to sldm through, for it might give the name of the architect of this remarkable old house. After a few lines, he found himself so engrossed he went back to the beginning to
read it carefully:

  A History of Cuddington House No. 18 in the Strand

  "Cuddington House may well be the oldest surviving structure in the Strand. It was erected by Sir Richard Cuddington, Bart., in the year 1520, being completed the day King Henry VIII and Queen Catherine of Aragon left for France for the Field of Cloth of Gold. They passed by the house from the Tower of London en route to Dover.

  At the time, Cuddington House in the Strand, as it was called, was quite innovative. The northern side of the Strand was largely unbuilt because the great episcopal mansions of the church hierarchy such as Worcester, Essex, York, Durham and Salisbury, occupied the opposite or south side. They fronted directly on the River Thames and were approached for the most part by water stairs. Their courtyards backed onto the Strand, and many of their gardens or orchards were on the opposite side of the street. Therefore, when Sir Richard Cuddington elected to build on this site, his decision was considered novel.

  Cuddington House was also remarkable in that it largely dispensed with the medieval facade. Its design incorporated many of the properties later associated with the classical Renaissance period. Security was no longer a problem, and wide windows, handsome staircases, double doorways, inside drains and a generous number of chimneys were becoming more popular.

  Upon the death of Sir Richard in 1530, Cuddington House was occupied by James Cuddington, the second son. Richard,

  the elder son, inherited the title and the vast Cuddington holdings in Surrey, near Ewell, property which was confiscated by Henry VIII in 1536. The king demolished the village of Cuddington, the manor house, the church and Merton Priory and erected on the site the renowned Palace of Nonsuch, which stood until 1682, when it was torn down by the Duchess of Cleveland, the notorious Barbara Villiers, the mistress of Charles II, to pay her gambling debts. In exchange for the Surrey property, Sir Richard Cuddington was given the manor of Ixworth in Suffolk, where he died in 1567 and where his descendants still live today.