The Best of Men (8 page)

At length, setting aside her quill, she glanced up. “Tomorrow you must be measured for a suit of clothes. Yours are in a terrible state. It is not appropriate for a man of your rank to be so unconcerned as to how you go about. And it is high time for you to make amends for the anguish you caused us.”

“Is that still possible?” he asked lightly, smiling at her.

“Indeed it is. You know what a war could mean to our family. You are thirty years of age, Laurence. You must marry, and give his lordship an heir. Oh sit, will you!” He obeyed, crossing his legs. “We have a match in mind,” she continued. “If you thoroughly dislike the girl, as I presume you did the last, there will be others to choose from. But it must be done. Can you not see how his lordship has grown old, for fretting about you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, more seriously.

“You should be.” Closing the account book, she got up to lock it away in her enamelled cabinet. “Are you not curious about this new prospect?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to consider my feelings, one way or the other,” he responded, still smiling.

“You shall, once we arrange for you to meet her. And if I may beg another favour, keep your distance from the servants,” she said, as she settled back at her desk. “They won’t respect you if you treat them as equals. I don’t know why you persist in that.”

“A bad habit I must have picked up abroad,” he murmured.

“No, sir, you have always done so,” she corrected him. There fell a silence, and he had the impression that she was steeling herself to broach a more difficult subject. “I gather you sustained some wounds abroad.” Laurence merely nodded, unwilling to make things easier for her. “I trust that you … that you are not damaged permanently from any of them?”

“Damaged?” he repeated. What a word to use, he thought to himself.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t pretend you misunderstand me,” she snapped, blushing again. “Are you capable of fathering a child?”

He hesitated a little, enjoying her embarrassment. “I gave you the answer to that question some years ago, if I remember.”

“Then I take it there is no impediment?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Laurence, I can only assume that you have led a rather loose life in the past. Were you ever infected?”

He laughed, genuinely amused; he might as well be a prize bull for breeding, which in fact he supposed he was. “Not that I’ve ever noticed, though my good luck amazes me.”

“I beg of you to put an end to such debauchery, in view of what is to come.”

“
Casar, casar, que bien, que mal
,” he remarked, knowing that she hated to hear her mother tongue and that the old Spanish proverb, a wry comment on matrimony, would annoy her just as much.

She frowned at him severely. “You shall marry, sir, for my peace of mind and for that of his lordship. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Elizabeth also told us that you do not want to serve in Thomas’ troop. If this is because of some foolish past rivalry between you, remember that he was a boy of nineteen when you last saw him. You will find him altered. He has been a most dutiful son to us, in your absence. He and his wife, Mary, stayed here at Chipping Campden after their wedding last year, though they would no doubt have preferred to establish their own household. Your father granted them a manor and some acreage near Gloucester, but as we had begun to lose all hope that you would return, we thought it best that he become acquainted with the business of the estate.”

“Of course,” Laurence said. Poor Tom, he reflected; the prize had just been snatched away.

“It will comfort his lordship to know that you and Thomas are together, if circumstances require you to fight. That is all,” she concluded. “You may go now, and break your fast.”

“Thank you,” he said, forgetting to bow to her as he left. He was still thinking of his brother.

He had been fifteen, and Tom almost ten. One afternoon in very late summer when rain prevented him from going to the river to bathe, he had escaped to his other favourite place, for both contemplation and a solitary, forbidden pleasure to which youths of his age were much addicted. The tall barn had been built for storing grain but was dilapidated and empty; he liked to sit on the topmost level, from which a platform extended so that men could toss sacks of corn down into the waiting carts. It provided an excellent view of the fields beyond, stacked with bales of fresh hay.

As he arrived, the sky cleared and rays of sunshine began to filter through the disappearing clouds. He went onto the platform, took off his doublet and shirt and lay back to bask in the heat; and he had just slipped a hand lazily below the waist of his breeches when he saw Tom clamber out of the barn.

“So this is where you hide!” Tom exclaimed.

“Go away,” Laurence said, snatching out his hand and sitting up. Tom was forever tagging after him, being more and more of a nuisance with his incessant questions and his desire to ape everything that his older brother did.

Tom peered over the edge of the platform. “Would it kill you if you fell? I’ll bet it would, unless you landed over in that haystack.”

He chattered on and on in his grating childish voice, so to silence it Laurence asked, “Shall we see?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tom said.

As though a powerful drug had been released into his system, Laurence strode to the edge, feeling a weightlessness in his body that convinced him he could fly or float in the air.

“No!” shouted Tom, but Laurence had already sailed off.

He fell, squarely, in the midst of the nearby haystack and rolled down, laughing and exhilarated until he glimpsed his brother’s silhouette against the sky. Horrified, he jumped up and ran to catch Tom as he leapt, and they both collapsed together in a panting heap. Tom suffered a broken ankle and a few scrapes and scratches. Laurence was unharmed, though ridden with guilt at his own heedlessness. As punishment, he was thrashed so hard that he could not sit down for days, though he deserved worse. They could both have broken their necks. Afterwards, Tom shied away from him whenever he tried to apologise, and eventually he gave up.

That September he left for his first term at Oxford, and when he returned to the house for the Christmastide holiday, the distance
between him and his brother seemed even greater: he had made new friends, such as Ingram, and found himself bored by Tom’s company. He took to teasing Tom, and they would end up in fights that he won, since he was bigger and stronger. Over the years his brother grew almost as tall, and stockier in build, so the physical sparring ceased and they fought with words. These battles Laurence also won, sending Tom into speechless rage. By the time that Tom started at Merton College, at the age of seventeen, Laurence was off in London and visited home infrequently. If they chanced to encounter one another alone, Tom barely addressed him.

“When did you hear?” Ingram asked Tom, as they rode towards Chipping Campden.

“My father sent his valet two days ago with the news. I’m glad you came to find me before I set out – I was in need of some company,” Tom confessed, at which Ingram guessed that he must have mixed feelings about Beaumont’s reappearance. “Ingram, is my brother any different?”

“I’m sure he is,” Ingram replied cautiously. “He saw some awful things while he was away. And he was wounded over there, almost killed.”

“I can’t imagine him as a soldier, he was so poor at fencing. He used to hate any form of discipline. He always did exactly as he pleased.” Ingram smiled at the truth of this. “You know,” Tom went on, “I wanted to fight abroad, too, but my father wouldn’t allow it.”

“He couldn’t afford to risk both of his sons in a foreign conflict.”

“It will be different here.”

“Yes, it will,” Ingram said, looking at him. He had Lord Beaumont’s good features and colouring, his hair and beard dark blond as his father’s would once have been. Save for a hint of his brother in the fine lines of his jaw and high cheekbones, nothing else betrayed their kinship.

Certainly not his manner, Ingram thought: Tom carried himself with all the poise and authority of a handsome young nobleman, in his well-cut clothes and expensive calfskin boots. Yet he had a sober, martial air about him these days that Ingram had not observed in him before. “How’s the troop?” Ingram asked.

“I’m proud of the men, to be honest, though we’re still too few in number. I can’t wait to see them tested in the field.”

“Soon enough,” Ingram said, unable to hide his own pessimism.

“You’re not afraid of a war, are you?” Tom said, as though no one should be.

“I
am
afraid, of what it will do to this country.”

“Those scoundrels in Parliament should get what they’re asking for!”

Tom spurred on his horse, and they passed the rest of their journey in silence. Upon galloping into the courtyard, he dismounted, flung his reins to the groom, and marched up to the house with his head held high, which made Ingram wonder if he was still angry from their brief political discussion. Ignoring the manservant who offered to take his hat and cloak, he entered the hall, with Ingram on his heels.

Beaumont was installed in an armchair, slouched back, a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He looked up at them and then slowly extricated himself from the chair.

“Home at last, eh?” Tom said, in a brusque tone. “How are you, Laurence?”

“I’m well, thanks,” Beaumont said, sounding formally polite. “And you?”

“Never better.”

Ingram started to laugh. “Is that all you have to say to each other after six years? How about a fraternal hug?”

Tom approached rather awkwardly, his arms wide.

“Oh, Tom – you don’t have to embrace me if you don’t want to,” Beaumont said, relaxing into a laugh also. Tom flushed and dropped his arms. “Here, have some wine,” Beaumont offered, perhaps aware that he had been ungracious.

“Fond of the grape, as ever,” remarked Tom, still eyeing him as he served it out.

“Of this wine, yes, especially after what I’ve been drinking for the past months.”

“Lord Beaumont does keep a wonderful cellar,” Ingram said, raising his glass.

At that moment Lord Beaumont himself entered, and they all bowed to him.

“Ingram, how happy I am to see you!” he exclaimed. “And Thomas, I thank you for coming home so quickly. Are we not blessed that Laurence is here safe and sound again?” He accepted a glass and sipped at it, saying afterwards, “The ladies have abandoned us. They are on a visit to the almshouses. And, Thomas, your darling Mary departed a couple of days ago to pay her respects to her family at Winchcombe.”

Tom looked disappointed. “I may miss her, then. We can only stay for the night.”

“Ah, that’s a pity. So, what news have you from Oxford?”

“It’s said that His Majesty will soon raise the royal standard, and his nephew Prince Rupert should have arrived in England by now,” Tom told him more cheerfully. “He’s to be one of the chief commanders of the horse. I only pray our troop will serve under him. I’ve heard he’s a formidable soldier, and he’s been trained in all the most advanced cavalry manoeuvres.”

“It is war, then,” murmured Lord Beaumont, becoming grave.

“But His Majesty is still very short of recruits,” Ingram said. “My friend Radcliff’s troop, woefully so. And the infantry are a disaster. None of them know their right foot from their left.”

“We can always console ourselves that the rebels are much worse off,” Tom asserted.

“How so?” inquired Lord Beaumont.

“They’re mostly weavers or tailors, or apprentices. They haven’t been bred to fight. They’ll desert in droves at the first engagement.”

“What about the Earl of Essex?” Ingram put in. “And Russell? And Mandeville? Or Lord Fairfax, in the north? Many men of quality have sided with Parliament, seasoned veterans amongst them.”

“But not you, I trust?” Tom asked his brother.

“No, not me,” Beaumont replied evenly.

“Tell me, who did you serve with in the Low Countries? The Dutch, I presume.”

“Er … I was with the Germans for most of the time,” Beaumont said, casting Ingram a warning glance.

“In the cavalry?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have been drilled in the new Swedish fashion.”

“The what?”

“You must know of it – the style favoured by King Gustavus. His Highness Prince Rupert will no doubt introduce it here. Three ranks of horsemen in loose formation and then a charge with the sword. No pistol fire until you meet the enemy.”

“Don’t the Germans use the six-rank formation, Tom?” Ingram pointed out.

Tom gave a little shrug and turned to his father. “I shall have to ask you for more money to cover bills for the troop. The Oxford merchants have all raised their prices on us. The colleges are no better. When they were asked to contribute to the war effort, some of them began hiding away their plate.”

“As I can understand,” Lord Beaumont said. “To see such beautiful things melted down, for such an unhappy purpose! My cousin
Stratton came recently to consult me on that issue. He was reluctant to part with some silver plate from the family, yet he felt it was his duty to do so.”

“As you must have advised him.”

“Oh no. I told him he must follow his own conscience, but that the plate was as nothing compared to his greatest treasure, which neither King nor Parliament could ask him to surrender. I refer to his wife,” Lord Beaumont added, smiling. “Did you ever meet her, Laurence?”

“I forget,” Beaumont said, at which Ingram heard Tom stifle a snigger.

“If you had met her, you would surely remember her. She and a friend of hers, a dark-haired lady whose name now escapes me, were judged two of the greatest beauties at Court. Stratton told me that Van Dyke had begged them to sit for him together, before his untimely death last year. Stratton considered it an unnecessary expense and so only her friend was painted, at the request of Lord Digby.” Lord Beaumont’s eyes took on a rather wicked glint. “I saw the finished work at Van Dyke’s studio, and I confess, I was most struck by it – she was in a classical costume that left little to the imagination. Stratton said he was relieved, at the time, that Diana had avoided such an immodest display of her charms. But I suspect he must since regret that she was not painted at all. When he visited, he could not stop admiring my own portrait by the late master.”