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.'
