The Best of Men (74 page)

They had been walking side by side. Laurence now stepped in front of him so that Falkland had to stop. “You mustn’t do that,” Laurence said, feeling a rush of compassion for the man. “For your wife’s sake, if nothing else, don’t do it.”

Falkland gave a little shrug. “Lettice would understand. She has always understood me better than anyone.”

“It’s very swollen today, my lord, and there is a discharge of pus,” said the physician.

“You have no need to inform me,” Digby said. “It hurts like the devil.” A servant appeared and announced that Mr. Beaumont was here to see his lordship. “Excellent. Send him in,” ordered Digby. He saw Beaumont hesitate at the door, evidently noticing his state of undress. “Mr. Beaumont, pray come and give me your view: why will my leg not heal?”

Beaumont advanced to look. “What have you been treating it with?”

“Everything conceivable.”

“I would let it heal naturally, my lord.”

Digby was examining him, as he inspected the wound. “If I were a woman, I would covet those luxuriant eyelashes of yours.” Beaumont jerked his head up. “Don’t you appreciate compliments?” Digby added.

“That would depend on who’s giving them,” Beaumont said, with a lazy smile.

Digby agreed, laughing; then he sighed. “How I hate to be an invalid, unable even to sit a horse comfortably. But you must know my frustration. Isabella tells me that when you were serving abroad you took a musket ball in the chest. Would you oblige me by showing me the scar?”

“Why, my lord?”

“To satisfy my interest in surgical operations.”

Beaumont opened his doublet and pulled up his shirt, at which Digby emitted a low whistle. At that moment Isabella entered un announced; she was wearing her bronze silk gown, and a necklace that Digby did not recognise.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “have I interrupted you in some masculine pastime?”

“We are comparing our war wounds, Isabella,” Digby said, “and Mr. Beaumont’s far surpasses my little scratch.” He saw her nod at Beaumont, who bowed to her, with no particular expression on his face. “Mr. Beaumont,” Digby went on, “I have not yet thanked you for snatching Isabella from Captain Milne. I find especially delightful the fact that you won her from him at cards!”

“At your expense, my lord,” Beaumont said, as he stuffed his shirt back into his breeches.

“There may be consequences, however,” Digby said, wagging a finger at him. “I hope you are fast with a rapier, because he has sworn to call you out.”

“So I hear. Might I ask why you sent for me, other than for a medical opinion?”

“I wanted to discuss my proposal about
Mercurius Aulicus
. You haven’t forgotten? I need a man with a nose for information.”

“Speaking of noses, Digby, you are offending mine,” Isabella commented. “Your wound, or whatever you have put on it, stinks.”

“You should clean off the poultice,” Beaumont said.

“Would you undertake the task for me, sir?”

Beaumont looked directly at him. “You have a doctor here, my lord.”

“But I should prefer that you do it.”

Beaumont requested hot water and a sponge, and as he tended to the wound, Digby watched his long fingers at work and imagined them exploring Isabella’s lovely skin. She was wandering around the room, fiddling with her necklace.

“What a stir in London,” Digby began again. “I can just picture the beautiful but feckless Lady d’Aubigny caught by some prick-eared Puritan as she was smuggling His Majesty’s Commission of Array in the bosom of her dress.”

“She was not caught with it down her dress,” Isabella objected. “You know very well that she had delivered it before her arrest.”

“Allow me some artistic licence! I write plays, Mr. Beaumont, were you aware of that?” Beaumont shook his head. “Although you must admit, Isabella, even had I written it as a piece for the stage, it could not be more
épatant
. Edmund Waller spilling all to preserve his life, which will also cost him some ten thousand pounds in fines and banishment once he serves his sentence, and those others whom he inculpated cursing him with their last breath as they go to the gallows! No wonder Parliament declared the fifteenth of June a day of public thanksgiving, for delivering the city from evil. Yet, thank God, the ladies will be spared any punishment, other than a brief spell in gaol. There are still some honourable souls in both Houses.” He waited for a response, either from Beaumont or Isabella, but they were silent, so he persisted, “What about you, Mr. Beaumont? You were in London at the time. What did you think of it?”

“Not much,” Beaumont replied, in his laconic way. He dropped the sponge in the bowl of water, now tinged pink with Digby’s blood, and wiped his hands on a dry cloth. “Don’t let anyone interfere with the
wound. Just put a clean bandage on it. And no more poultices, or you’ll have gangrene.”

“Worry not, sir, I shan’t require you to amputate my limb.”

“Some would pay money for that privilege,” Isabella said.

“Yes, Prince Rupert certainly would, and probably Wilmot, too! That reminds me – is Falkland still keeping you from Wilmot’s service, Mr. Beaumont?” Beaumont smiled at him again, rather challengingly this time. “How lucky for you. Though having seen that scar of yours, I can comprehend why you would choose to eschew the field of battle, to train his spies for him instead.”

“Lest you did not get his meaning, Mr. Beaumont,” said Isabella, “Digby is calling you a coward.”

“Oh I don’t mind,” Beaumont said, with a laugh. “I’ve been called that by better men than him.”

Isabella cleared her throat, as if suppressing her own amusement.

“Yet are you not a little in disgrace, sir, after the events in London?” Digby inquired, amused too, but simultaneously piqued by his retort. “I heard you had your wrist slapped by His Majesty for abandoning his young cousin’s widow in her hour of need. Some might call that a cowardly act.”

“None of us is beyond self-interest, my lord. But in this case, I would have been no use to her, or to His Majesty, had I let myself be arrested.”

“Oh yes – once tortured, twice shy.”

“Precisely. Good day to you, my lord.”

“Please don’t neglect me, Doctor Beaumont. You must come back and check on my progress.”

“Of course. Good day, Mistress Savage.”

“Good day to you, sir,” she said, politely cool, though as soon as Beaumont had gone, she asked Digby crossly, “Why did you engineer this encounter between us?”

“I suppose it was unnecessary, since you are seeing quite enough of him these days, at your house,” Digby said. “Or should I say, these nights. But I thought it would be entertaining to observe you two together. And I
was
entertained, mightily.”

“Why did you ask him to clean your wound? To humiliate him?” “No, to test the strength of his stomach. Now come here and let me see that necklace. It’s new, isn’t it. Whoever gave it to you has taste, as well as money.”

“I might have bought it myself.”

“When have you ever had to buy your own jewellery?” Gently Digby stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “How is he in bed, my dear? I confess to a certain curiosity. Does he live up to expectations? Such a tall fellow … he must be splendidly proportioned.”

“Now you are being lewd, Digby. It doesn’t suit you.”

“And you are blushing, which suggests to me that I am right.”

“You sound as if you would like to bed him yourself.”

Digby threw back his head and chortled. “No, but I shall be pleased to work with him. In that respect, he and I are a match made in heaven.”

“I cannot think of two more different people.”

“Difference is healthy in a relationship. And we shall get along famously, for we harbour no illusions about each other. Somewhat like you and me, my dear. Besides, I have another motive.”

“What could that be?”

“To eliminate any impediment to your happiness. He is a vast improvement on Captain Milne, so I intend you to be with your lover as often as you want.”

“How gracious of you. I thought you wished to marry me off.”

“In time, when you grow bored of him. You do have to wonder,” Digby said, after a short pause, “what went on between him and those ladies, on the road to London.” Isabella stopped touching her necklace and squinted at him. “Everyone knows of Lady d’Aubigny’s lust
for Mr. Beaumont,” he continued, “and as for Lady Sophia, I have met cats in heat that are more modest. Do you think he could have done them both?”

“Why don’t you ask him, when he next comes to visit you?” she said smoothly.

“I most definitely will!” Digby rejoined; her insouciance did not fool him for a second.

Lord Beaumont picked up the letter that Adam had delivered from Thomas, and read it yet again: “There was a victory at Chalgrove Field. Ormiston fought bravely, but died of a wound to his stomach on the road back to Oxford. His last words were to send Elizabeth his love and that he regretted his time together with her was so short. He was not in any pain. We lost only twelve men, him amongst them. We buried him alongside the others, at Oxford, for we had no means to send back his body.”

“To think that this war has made a widow of Elizabeth before her twentieth birthday,” he remarked sadly to his wife.

“At least she is with us now,” Lady Beaumont reminded him, for Ormiston’s mother, stricken by the death of her only son, had taken to bed, and while his sisters fussed around her, Elizabeth had pleaded to return to Chipping Campden.

“A common grave,” he lamented. “She will not even know where he lies. If it were one of our own sons!”

Supper that evening was a dismal affair. The small amount that Lord Beaumont could force down tasted worse than dust in his mouth, and the wine he drank aggravated a dizziness that had troubled him frequently of late. He retired, his head aching, and feigned sleep when his wife joined him, for he was too unhappy for conversation. But he did not doze until far into the night.

He dreamt that he was standing once again in the courtyard at Seville, young and shy and nervous, come to ask for the hand in marriage of Elena Capdavila y Fuentes. He stifled in the heat, moisture trickling off his brow and down the back of his neck. The sunshine blinded him, even as he sought shade beneath the almond trees, and he felt lulled into a stupor by the tinkling noise of the fountains. Then a figure emerged from one of the archways and beckoned to him. It was her cousin Antonio, dressed in dark olive-green velvet and a hat plumed with white feathers. Lord Beaumont approached and they bowed to each other.

“I must congratulate you,” Antonio said, showing his perfect teeth in a wide smile. “Of all the girls, you picked my favourite – the eldest. Do you not notice in Elena a marked resemblance to myself?”

“You are very like,” said Lord Beaumont. “But that is only natural, your mother and hers being sisters.”

“Natural, is it?” exclaimed Antonio. And he guffawed with laughter, as if he had just heard the best of witticisms.

Lord Beaumont lurched to consciousness. Sun streamed through the bed curtains, and the birds were chirruping their morning chorus. He removed his nightcap, which was damp with perspiration. Why should such a dream have visited him, and why should it so disturb him? He had not thought of Antonio since last Christmas, when he had told Elizabeth the rumour about her mother’s Moorish ancestry.

He remembered the one visit he had made to Antonio’s home, a vast crumbling edifice some centuries old. His host had treated him cordially, pouring him excellent wines, though the food upset his stomach afterwards: too much oil and garlic, and meat kept too long in warm temperatures. Antonio had questioned him with great interest about his estate and his parents, and how they might accept his foreign bride; and Lord Beaumont answered frankly that he knew that it would not be easy, given the religious and political differences between England and Spain.

“Parents are a curse, are they not,” Antonio declared, stretching out his elegant legs and putting his feet up on the table. “Though I can hardly complain. Both of mine are gone. My mother died bearing me.” He paused, resting his pale eyes on Lord Beaumont. “Do you know, she had been wed six years without issue before I took root in her womb. Her husband was an elderly man reckoned by his doctors to be impotent.”

“These apparent miracles do happen,” Lord Beaumont remarked.

“He went to his grave a year after her, leaving me sole heir to a diminished fortune and this ancient pile of rubble. Which is why I had to become a soldier, and could not be, as you are, a man of leisure. We are all poor but noble,” Antonio said, with a scornful laugh. “Look at Elena’s sisters. Unless they are married off soon, how many of them will escape the convent?”

“If her father had not been taken by sickness in the Indies, he might have repaired their fortunes,” Lord Beaumont pointed out.

Antonio removed his feet from the table and leant forward. “Let me tell you about him. It was said that he had infidel blood, from some misadventure on his grandmother’s side. He courted
my
mother before Elena’s – he was crazed with love for her and nearly killed himself when she was sold behind his back to a withered old prick. So he married her younger sister, to be near her as much as he could, without anyone raising an eyebrow. One he took through the front door of the Church, but the other –” Antonio winked at Lord Beaumont, who was struggling to follow his rapid Castilian. “As for me,” Antonio continued, “before he set out for the Indies that last time, he forbade me to come to his house. Immoral, he called me! I came by it honestly.”

As he listened, Lord Beaumont thought that Antonio must have few friends, to unburden himself so to a stranger. After that, they saw each other only once or twice and exchanged no more than courtesies. Lord Beaumont had been too preoccupied by his betrothed: when he
departed with her from Seville, she was inconsolable at leaving her mother and sisters.

Sitting up in bed, he looked over at her while she slept, as desirable to him after more than thirty years as when they had first met. “My dear,” he whispered, tapping her arm, “I have had the most extraordinary dream.”