One evening, Juliana Lovell opened her door at dusk and was startled by another visitor. Standing on the step with a bundle of possessions at her feet, which appeared to include large pieces of a demountable truckle bed, was Mistress Anne Jukes. Under a decent brown cloak and safeguard overskirt she wore a plain dress in a demure shade of grey, buttoned to her neat white collar, a coif over her hair and a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat topping everything. She looked lean, fit and suntanned, yet quite exhausted. She tottered inside and kicked off her iron-soled country pattens. When she said she had tramped on foot all around the south of London to get here, the reason for her weariness was clear. It must be over twenty miles from Cobham in Surrey to Lewisham in Kent.
'Was there no kind person with a cart to give you a lift some of the way?'
Anne massaged her feet through extremely worn stockings. 'Would you take up a woman with her bed on her back and a sow on leading reins?'
'Oh! Where is the pig?' snapped Juliana, too poor to be polite.
'She collapsed by your gate. Your boys are cajoling her into a shelter.'
Juliana took in this runaway without question. Apart from their existing friendship, a result of war was that one woman without money or support instantly recognised the plight of another and opened her arms. They would struggle together. Moreover, Anne had brought a pig.
They shared what they had for several weeks, in an easy, companionable relationship. Once she had settled down and felt secure in this refuge, Anne decided she must write to tell Lambert where she was. She mentioned in passing that it would soon be her birthday.
In the Jukeses' house in London, the brothers were bereft. They had run through a period of complete anarchy, when nothing was cleaned or tidied up, but had grown tired of that, neither being a lad any more. Living on baker's pies and muffins had given Lambert indigestion on a monumental scale. They were now just about managing with a new hired cook and maid, though both women despised them, stole from the store cupboard, and let dishes and beakers slip through their clumsy fingers to shatter on the floor. The Jukes were subjected to a cuisine of boiled mutton and veal, with the scum never skimmed off even though Parthenope's graded set of brass skimmers hung right by the fire. Every day's grey and greasy dinner made the pair more despondent, especially since they were both aware how much their meticulous mother would have grieved over their sufferings.
This was not Lambert's only misery, however. He and Anne had married for true affection; they had been married for fifteen years, which was a long time in an age when death lurked at every wainscot corner. Though Lambert nostalgically remembered himself as a practised ladies' man, running through the sprightly Cheapside wenches with dash and just a hint of dishonour, Gideon suspected Anne was the only woman he had known — or ever wanted. She was good-looking, even-tempered, able to manage Lambert so he never minded being bossed; Lambert had genuinely admired her spirit when she began to take part in extreme religion and politics. His gratitude for the way she had run the grocery business for him was heartfelt. If he had known matters would come to this, he would have worked with her. He would have allowed her anything she wanted. He was accustomed to her being always there, and felt lost without her daily presence. If this was not love, it was as close to love as anything could be.
He would not say so. Lambert never denied his feelings, but he rarely mentioned them. Fortunately, his brother knew. Gideon was truly moved by Lambert's misery.
Their army experiences had left them with a bond, a greater tenderness for each other in time of trouble. When Anne wrote from her new home in Lewisham, Lambert let Gideon read the letter. It was couched in neutral language and could pass merely for what it said: information of her whereabouts. Nonetheless, Gideon suggested that although she had issued no specific invitation, Lambert should visit on her birthday — perhaps around luncheon time? — and try to persuade Anne to return to him. Lambert's enthusiasm was touching — but he wanted his brother to go with him in support.
Gideon cursed and said no. Then the ground was cut from under him. He received a deputation from a florid apparition: Elizabeth Bevan, his great-uncle's widow. Elizabeth believed God put men on earth for her personal assistance, and she had an unexpected request: she begged Gideon to visit the Keevils at Eltham — 'For I am certain they have another daughter, just the age to be brought to London to look after my piteous orphaned brood, even as poor dear Lacy cared for them, until you whisked her away from us.'
Gideon gazed out of the window, unsympathetically. He would never forget how Lacy had been placed in front of him like a piece of moist seed cake on a silver platter. He said coldly, 'That is not quite how I remember it, madam.'
He meant Elizabeth to see that he suspected her and Bevan of duplicity. Seated unflustered at the Jukeses' dining table, she rested her formidable low-slung bust upon the board. Age had bloated her. Though she was not breeding, since it was now two years after Bevan Bevan drowned in the Thames, she still exuded helplessness. She sighed with valiant self-pity. 'To say truth, he was never the same, after he was squashed into the horse-trough at your wedding, Gideon.'
'I was never the same after my wedding,' retorted Gideon frankly.
Elizabeth ignored that. She glossed over her desperate need for a new, cheap girl to bully in her tumultuous nursery; instead she claimed she was perturbed about the Keevil family's fortunes. 'We have heard nothing of them recently, and times being so hard, especially for country folk, I fear the worst… I cannot go, but it would surely be no burden for you to ride out to Eltham and see how they manage? Robert Allibone will lend you his horse.'
Gideon was impressed by how far she had thought this through. Still, Elizabeth and Bevan had always been great imposers.
He stood up, arms folded, and stared down at his bothersome great-uncle's untrustworthy wife.
'Lord, you are a long lad! I swear you were begot by a beanpole; you will have cost your dear mother some pain in bearing you…'
'I want to know the truth,' Gideon said.
'Why, whatever can you mean?'
'I mean this, madam. I say it without vindictiveness towards my late wife, for I believe she was abused just as much as me. I owned the child, and I would have set myself to be a good father all her days…'
'Yet Lacy said you never set the baby once upon your knee!' interposed Elizabeth waspishly.
'The more blame is mine!' Gideon believed himself older and more tolerant now. Perhaps he was. 'Is it any wonder though? I believed Lacy Keevil was fumbled by someone and got with child dishonestly, before I was ever introduced to her. I was duped. You know it — and you should now tell me how it happened.'
Elizabeth Bevan stood up too. Gathering herself together, which took some moments, she looked Gideon over just as disdainfully as he was surveying her. 'That is a terrible thing for anyone to think or say. May God forgive you for it, Gideon Jukes!'
She swept out. Gideon experienced one short moment of doubt — then apocalyptic certainty.
Which was why, when his brother was yearning to travel to Lewisham to plead with Anne, Gideon organised a cart to take them, then brought Robert's peculiar horse as well. Though he did not admit it to himself, and he certainly would not tell Elizabeth Bevan, he would be free, if the mood took him, to leave Lambert with Anne while he went off on his own to find Lacy's family in nearby Eltham.
'Write and warn Anne you are coming. Then you should take a gift for her birthday, Lambert.'
Lambert looked horrified. 'That has never been a tradition between Anne and me!'
'You great mutton-pasty! We live in a new world, brother,' argued Gideon, with great patience (he thought). 'Consider that we may therefore have a new situation between your wife and you.'
Lewisham was about to present Gideon Jukes with a much newer situation than he foresaw.
They turned up, trying not to look too stiff in their best suits. They were close-barbered, with well-brushed hats, cunningly arriving an hour before mealtime. Gideon sent his brother indoors alone, bearing the birthday present. He waited with the cart long enough to be sure Lambert was not to be sent packing. Then, since there was a paddock, he set about unharnessing the horses.
Two small boys walked out and stared through the hedge at him. They were lean-limbed, pleasant-featured, intelligent children. Their dark-haired locks curled on their collars — longer hair than Gideon approved of, though he was in a scratchy mood since he knew that the woman Anne lived with was a Royalist. These tidy little mother's boys had been dressed in two suits of the same ochre-coloured material, with brown braid trimming. The elder, about seven years old, looked a lad of spirit, the younger more withdrawn. They watched, as the ancient grey mare from Benjamin Lucock's cart rolled on her back on the grass, full of joy, then struggled herself upright to gallop around crazily. Rumour stood by the hedge looking sorry for himself. 'So much a city horse, he will not play,' commented Gideon to the older boy, who remained there watching, while Gideon followed the younger one indoors.
Nobody else was about. Gideon stood at a loss in the kitchen. He noticed hopefully a basket where Anne Jukes's famous manchet rolls were peeking from a napkin; he identified the delicious gammony scent of a fidget pie, still cooking. The boy watched him.
Gideon placed his hat beside Lambert's on a buffet and sat on a chair. There were three chairs, in wooden country style, all pushed back against the wall to leave more working space around a rectangular oak table. On it were signs of preparation for a celebration meal. Like a bored soldier awaiting action, Gideon put himself into a state of neutral suspense.
The small boy fetched himself a crockery jar, then squirmed up onto one of the other chairs, with his thin legs sticking out in front of him; he wrenched off a tight lid as if he had done it many times, dug in his fist and began eating biscuits.
In the tradition of boys, he could speak with his mouth full. 'Are you my father?'
'I believe not,' replied Gideon, nonplussed.
The child bore him no ill-will, but jumped down, came near and proffered the biscuit crock. 'You may have one!' he instructed.
'Valentine!' A woman came through an internal door. 'He has been taught good manners and he knows how to share.'
'But there are limits,' answered Gideon gravely, eating his single Shrewsbury cake with appropriate concentration and winking at Valentine.
He looked at the mother. Shock jarred on both sides, as they recognised each other. Immediately the woman looked away and went to the table, where she continued working.
What was she — twenty-five? Neat figure; uncovered dark hair in a flat bun on her crown; back of a long neck showing; small earrings hung from pretty ears; an air of wariness and caution.
She had carried in a large platter. Setting it before her, she placed an upturned pudding basin in the centre, then covered all the remaining plate with finely shredded lettuce that she had cut up and washed and swung dry in a clean cloth. She worked unhurriedly, with enjoyment and care.
The boy, Valentine, put back the biscuits on the shelf and stood beside the table to watch. By lolling against it and leaning his cheek on the board, he was able to swivel and stare at Gideon. Gideon stayed still and kept quiet. His light skin had flushed slightly red. At least the boy's presence acted as a distracting focus, making it unnecessary for the adults to converse.
Gideon thought hard. He decided to forget the scene on Whitehall Stairs, unless Richard Brandon was mentioned.
Juliana, for her part, would certainly not admit the conversation she had overheard with the executioner in the boat. She had immediately remembered this tall, fair-haired, clean-shaven man, though he looked different out of uniform — quite different, in fact, sitting demurely with his knees together and his hands clasped. The clothes he was wearing fitted better than the red New Model Army coat. It was not much of an improvement. He still looked, Juliana sneered to herself, like a glum piece of piety. She would not trust him with a kitchenmaid. Luckily she did not have one.
'What is this dish called?' demanded Valentine, nagging for her attention. He knew perfectly well.
'A salmagundi.'
'What is that?'
'A pretty mosaic of meat, fish and salad.'
Slices of cooked chicken had been laid around the outer perimeter of the platter, alternating neatly with a trimmed green bean between each. More beans made a second circle, then Juliana placed a third ring, this time pieces of boned anchovy mixed with nuts and silver onions. She painted salad oil on the pudding basin, a device of her own to help create a centrepiece by sticking on finely trimmed celery, transparent cut radishes, leaves of sorrel, berries and spinach. In a clean bowl she prepared chopped egg yolks, the diced leg-meat of the roasted chickens, capers, almonds and parsley, bonded with a salad dressing which she mixed up fresh. The whole grand display was decorated with nasturtium flowers and, on the top of the central bowl, a turnip cut into the shape of a flower, which Gideon Jukes knew of old must be his sister-in-law's handiwork.
Valentine lost interest and scampered outside. Juliana followed him to the door and called, 'Val — tell Thomas not to spy on people!' When she turned back to the kitchen, there was no choice but to speak.
'Anne Jukes and her husband are walking in the orchard, while they try to come to terms,' stated Juliana.
'I shall not disturb them.' Gideon reflected that this was the closest he had ever come to one of the enemy, except when he was killing them. It did kindle a frisson of excitement. The young woman had used an extremely sharp knife to slice the radishes. She had chopped those egg yolks, Gideon thought, as if she was imagining they were Roundheads' livers… Possibly he fantasised.
'So you are…?' she asked pointedly. A woman had the right to know who was sitting in her kitchen, picking Shrewsbury cake off his doublet.
'Gideon Jukes.' He ate the crumbs. Orlando Lovell would have brushed them away. That was when Juliana spotted the missing ends to several of his fingertips.
He must be thirty; fair-skinned; boyish features. Although he and Lambert were of different builds, and must have many years between them, Juliana could now see a likeness. She noticed that Gideon Jukes did not use the title of Captain which she knew he had. When he said his name, with an effort she managed not to exclaim Ah! to let him know she had heard of him. Men should not be encouraged to think themselves famous, Grand-mere once said.
He was not what she had expected. Well, that was interesting.
For his part, Gideon identified from her manner and the shape of her face that this was definitely the boys' mother, though the children shared distinct looks from another source. He knew from Lambert that her absent husband, the Delinquent, was a Colonel Orlando Lovell. He knew something else too, which the woman might not herself have heard: Robert — who had met Mistress Lovell when she brought Lambert home ill — had noticed in the Westminster reports that Colonel Lovell had levied war against Parliament last year, for which he had been labelled dangerous and voted unfit for pardon. Presumably the man was abroad. Presumably he would have to stay there.
Gideon Jukes felt curious. Mistress Juliana Lovell was not widowed, yet seemed condemned to a lonely life. Judging by her bare house, she lived close to poverty. How did she survive? Why did she not join her absent husband? She seemed too self-assured to be afraid of exile; besides, Anne Jukes had said Mistress Lovell was half-French.
Clearing his throat, he embarked on polite conversation, relating what Lambert had brought for Anne. 'It took us — two plain men, though with honest hearts — much ingenuity to find a suitable gift for a woman who believes that God made the world a treasury for the common man and woman, and that all wealth should be redistributed equally'
'Since Mistress Jukes does not care for outward show, there was no point in a rushed trip to the nearest jewellers,' Juliana agreed. For some reason she thought of the great pearl necklace Lovell once brought her. It lay in its velvet-lined box, at the bottom of her linen chest. She could have worn it today, in honour of Anne.
She was wearing, however, beneath a long apron, the gown that had been her wedding dress. Its once-bright silk had faded until only the deepest gathers of the skirt still showed their original colour. It had a significantly low neckline, but she wore a decent linen gorget to cover her bosom. It seemed to her that Lambert Jukes's pious brother was concentrating too hard on the glimpses of flesh where the circular collar's vandyked lace edge did not altogether meet the top of her silk bodice…
Gideon would say his interest was purely mathematical. Being particularly observant, a fact he was proud of, he had also noted that when Mistress Juliana Lovell bent forwards — for instance, to place the glowing nasturtium flowers on her decorative solomongundi (as his mother had called them) — a narrow triangle of pale bare skin revealed itself intriguingly between the two fronts of the gorget, which was pinned at the neck with a pearl brooch and a bunch of blue ribbons. The ends of the ribbons spoiled the view sometimes — though that added to the challenge.
'Goldsmiths were barred to us,' he replied in a glum tone.
'I would have bought her a new Dutch hoe!' Juliana declared. The tall man eyed her in careful silence. This was hard work. 'So what did the pair of you settle on?' she asked, enticing the story from him as if he were one of her sons.
'Velvet house slippers.'
'With a fur trimming?'
'We did not think of that.' Gideon looked wistful about the lost opportunity. Still wearing that earnest expression, he appealed to Juliana for approval: 'The reasoning was thus: a frivolity — yet useful. Sufficiently expensive to indicate my brother's true repentance of his deficiencies as a husband — which are so many — yet soft on the feet after a hard day labouring in cold fields… In case our dear Anne was still partaking of the agricultural life.'
'Gracious heavens,' exploded Juliana. 'I hope you ninnies bought the right size!'
He shot her a look of reproof. 'This was not overlooked! An old shoe was found at the back of a cupboard, madam, and taken to be measured.'
You thought of that, thought Juliana, for some reason quite certain of it.
Then Gideon Jukes abruptly opened his true blue eyes wider and flashed a conspiratorial gleam. He knew Juliana realised how hard he had worked to bring Lambert here in a conciliatory frame of mind. Too late, she understood just how much mischief and amusement was being concealed. The man had been acting all along.
And what,' asked Juliana, a little more coolly than she had intended, 'if Mistress Anne Jukes declines to be won over? If a bought gift will not do?'
'Horrors!' Lambert's brother propelled himself more upright. 'But in the failing of the first clause, the second clause at once comes into effect.'
'Which is?' Juliana fought off a smile.
'This, madam: my brother will tell his wife, Anne, of his unfailing devotion to her. His constancy and care of her. He will applaud her fine temperament and talents. Her personable features. Her devotion to God and to her meagre husband. Her gentleness, tolerance, honesty, good faith and bravery. Her wit, her skills, her conversation, her kindness. He may — though of course I must blush to say this to a stranger — have some praising words for their pleasures in bed.' He did not blush, though Juliana felt somewhat heated. Above all,' Gideon went on, ticking off points on his damaged fingers, 'he will not forget to dwell avidly upon the splendour of her manchet rolls and how wondrously she can cut a turnip into the form of a delicate flower.'
'You are a wag, Captain Jukes. Do you also juggle with feather mops?'
'I am a true man. He will unburden his heart.'
It will work, thought Juliana. She felt wooed herself. That was dangerous.
Captain Jukes lowered his eyes. His voice was stripped of all comedy. 'Is it your opinion my poor brother will persuade his wife to return?'
'Will he live in the home, share her labours in their business, avoid the company of old soldiers, cease drinking in low taverns — and be grateful that he has a wife?'
'I can suggest this,' offered Gideon.
'Anne will suggest it!' returned Juliana fiercely. 'Well, sir; she must have told him her feelings by now, and they have not come in from the orchard, bitterly arguing. She has not called me out to help her bury his cadaver… Since you ask, I believe she will go back. She grew tired of the community at Cobham. The hard struggles and frequent danger. Tired of the cold fields, but also tired, she says, of people who were neither hers by blood nor chosen by her, tired of living in a noisy, crowded house, tired of never having anything to call her own. Besides — ' Juliana took the baked pie out of the oven and allowed herself a moment to admire its golden, turned-back pastry. She kept the man in suspense deliberately. 'Besides, his faults are neither here nor there for Anne: she misses him.'
She gazed across the fidget pie at Gideon Jukes. He looked straight back — though had a visible temptation to scrutinise the gorgeous pie. He had a way of looking at Juliana as if they had been best friends for thirty years. There was approval in it, and certainty that they agreed with one another on all that was important. It gave Juliana a disconcerting tightness in her chest.
He was just an overgrown City of London apprentice, all cheeky eyes and an unwarranted opinion of his own worth. If she left him alone in the kitchen, he would cut the pie open and steal a slice, then pocket another and walk off whistling…
He was smiling very slightly. He knew everything she thought.
When Anne and Lambert walked in, they both saw it: Gideon was enjoying himself.