product of a mother who wanted him fit to live with; Juliana wished she could have known Parthenope Jukes. She wished she had Parthenope to advise on Tom and Val.
Of course, when he rinsed his hands Gideon always left the damp towel scrunched on a chair, but no man is perfect, despite the efforts of his mother. More often than not, he did remember not to leave the soap-ball sitting in a pool of water so it went slimy…
Whenever he caught Juliana watching him, Gideon cocked his head on one side like a speculating robin. They would survey one another in silence sometimes, wearing slight smiles. It was companionable, undemanding, satisfied. He knew she was learning his habits, his ways of moving, all his thoughts. He looked for and found a new peacefulness in the gaze of her grey eyes. He had achieved that; he knew it. At such moments, Juliana would notice a sigh waft though him very faintly, not from trouble but in emotion that she knew he welcomed.
So, in December 1654, since they both thought it certain they would never desert one another, nor would anything ever come between them, they married. At that period of the Interregnum, the legal form of marriage was civil; weddings were performed with the Independents' belief in minimal noise and ceremony. It suited them both. They presented their particulars to their local parish registrar. Banns could be called in church or the market-place; Gideon and Juliana opted for the market-place. Once their banns had been cried, the registrar gave them their certificate of publication. A justice of the peace accepted their certificate, their declarations that they were over twenty-one, and their honest explanation of the continuing absence and presumed death of Juliana's first husband. The JP had met such situations before and did not quibble. So, with Anne, Lambert, Catherine and Miles as their credible witnesses, they were married in due Commonwealth form: The man to be married, taking the woman to be married by the hand, shall plainly and distinctly pronounce these words:
'I Gideon Jukes, do here in the presence of God, the searcher of all hearts, take thee Juliana Lovell for my wedded wife; and do also in the presence of God, and before these witnesses, promise to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband.'
And then the woman, taking the man by the hand, shall plainly and distinctly pronounce these words:
'I Juliana Lovell, do here in the presence of God, the searcher of all hearts, take thee Gideon Jukes for my wedded husband; and do also in the presence of God, and before these witnesses, promise to be unto thee a loving, faithful and obedient Wife.'
Juliana dropped her eyes a little at 'obedient' — while Gideon smiled at it.
Certain of themselves, they shared none of the qualms others had that the bare new marriage service lacked validity. Not for them fiddlers, white dresses, riotous games with bridesmaids and bridesmen, lewd fumbling with garters or terrible wedding jokes. Nor did they trouble to use a wedding ring, that diabolical circle for the devil to dance in. They would be bound by mutual loyalty. All the solemnity they needed had come to them with the admission of their love. To celebrate, they gave a dinner at home for a small circle of family and friends, then simply went on with the life together that by then they had firmly established.
Chapter Seventy-Three — Hampshire and London: 1653
Orlando Lovell came ashore in Hampshire, sometime in early summer 1653, alone. He landed in a dapper cloak and an ash-grey suit, passing himself off as someone who travelled for education or business. He wore a sword like a gentleman. His baggage was compact and neat. He brought no horse, because Parliament imposed heavy customs duties on anyone importing horses into England unless they had obtained prior exemption from duty because they were diplomats. If Lovell thought of himself as a diplomat, it was not the kind who made formal addresses to the Lord Protector.
He bought a horse, finding it a good joke to cheat the man who sold it to him. Taking no trouble to hire a groom or other servant, he set about his personal business.
At this time, Lovell had not long been back in Europe. Earlier that year, a month before Oliver Cromwell lost his temper and dismissed the Rump Parliament, a disheartened Prince Rupert had returned to France from the West Indies, with Lovell in his company. While Rupert was devastated by the loss of his brother, Lovell's regret was a veneer. As he saw it, he had had a lucky escape, and not just from the hurricane. For the past three years he had led an adventurous life, but he had endured his fill of sailing.
Of course he had not died on the Defiance. That would have been the kind of bad planning Orlando Lovell deplored. During the storm, he was aboard one of their prize ships.
There was a disadvantage in capturing a ship: the victor had to reduce his own establishment by placing officers and men aboard, to sail her back to a home port. Prince Rupert had no home port, but if they were sound enough his prizes were attached to his slowly increasing squadron.
Lovell, a trusted officer, had sometimes been deployed elsewhere than on Maurice's flagship. Maurice, probably, had liked a break from him. Lovell, no admirer of commanders, had certainly liked a break from Maurice.
His vessel somehow survived, rendezvoused with Prince Rupert and limped back to France. At St Malo the bedraggled Lovell abandoned the rat-infested, rotten hulk on which he had floated back. He was ready to ditch Rupert too. He made his own journey to the court of King Charles II. Not many exiled cavaliers remembered him, but building up his reputation from scratch was nothing new. Orlando Lovell always had the air of a man they ought to remember. He could even persuade people to apologise for their forgetfulness, when in truth they had never met him before.
The young King's court and that of his widowed mother, Queen Henrietta Maria, moved between Paris and St Germain-en-Laye with their impoverished retinues. Lovell hated it. When, eventually, the French decided it was in their interests to begin making overtures to Cromwell and the English Commonwealth, the disgruntled Charles II moved to Holland. That had the advantage of placing him near the coast from which he would sail to invade his kingdom — if he ever did so. He had neither an army nor ships to transport it; there was no funding.
Throughout his exile, Charles would keep up the trappings of monarchy, dining in state formally to emphasise his privileged position — wasting money that-Lovell thought would be better spent on men and arms. Throughout this time, too, Charles was the focus of continual scheming which, though it never came to much in real terms, served to unsettle and preoccupy the Commonwealth.
Lovell found that among the English Royalists, several groups were plotting. These exiles were by definition those who had done most tenacious service to the royal cause, men most virulently opposed to Parliament, men who would find it difficult or impossible to return home — men like Lovell himself, though he would not have acknowledged any likeness to most of them. Some had been denounced and banished. Whether in France, Germany or Holland, they had nothing else to do but drink, duel — and conspire.
Lovell was a modest drinker, preferring to spend his cash on himself rather than splash out on carousing with a feckless group. Guarded, he kept to himself, so avoided fights. As one of Rupert's privateers, Lovell was rather isolated at court, especially after Rupert quarrelled with everyone and left for Germany. But scheming always attracted him. Ever grimly practical, he surveyed the field. Turncoats and double agents were everywhere. Orlando Lovell enjoyed feeling that no man near him could be trusted. It absolved him from letting any man trust him.
What his Royalism still supplied was danger and a challenge. He had always been restless and risk-loving. So long as he had means to live, intriguing for the young King would suit Lovell. Like many men of shallow morals, he called himself a patriot. He had no romantic longings to restore the monarchy; he had fought for the Stuarts for more than a decade and knew their limitations. Still, he had made his choice, just before Edmund Treves first met him in Oxford. A proud man, he never went back on a decision. He would stay loyal. Always sure of his own worth, he thought this gave him nobility.
Among the exiles, he identified various conspirators. The Louvre Group tended to be Catholic and courted alliance with Scotland. The Old Royalists were Anglican and opposed a Scottish alliance. A set called the Swordsmen associated with Prince Rupert in Paris, men who had no particular policy, other than fighting. The Action Party were more militant but just as unsuccessful. Sometime in 1653, the most famous and secretive group emerged, the Sealed Knot. They had hopes to attract backing from the Levellers. It was not completely crazy, because the Levellers had opposed the King's execution and disenchanted leaders of their party did come knocking at Royalist doors. They found them easily. That was how secret the secret plotters were.
Lovell made a scathing assessment of these cliques: their hopes were ridiculous, their disorder was dire. He
